Gray Scale
by lennoxcontrary
Summary: When the Reynosas come after Gibbs the team is forced into dark territory.
1. Gibbs Is Gone

_**a/n**_:_ In which I experiment with plot! And (more) melodrama!_

_This is a long action-adventure of an AU story. It features violence, blood, mean Feds, and also really mean bad guys who do really mean bad things. There is gratuitous use of my favorite recurring characters along with the development of a few prominent OC characters. The story takes off at the end of Season 7, disregarding scenes from the last few minutes of "Rule Fifty-One." Tony never went to Mexico to observe Alejandro. Paloma never went to Stillwater to threaten Gibbs' father. In this story, the Evil Reynosa Cartel chooses to go after Gibbs a little more directly._

_I've never attempted anything involving a plot before so, you know, this could get messy. Any and all feedback is most appreciated._

**Gray Scale**

_**Abby:**__ Well. That's kind of a gray area._

_**Gibbs:**__ How gray?_

_**Abby:**__ Charcoal._

– _From "_The Truth Is Out There"

**x**

**Chapter One: Gibbs Is Gone**

Ziva had been in many _interesting_ situations.

This really shouldn't count as one of them.

She was sitting at her desk in the Navy Yard—a complex bristling with the sort of security she usually found reassuring. At the moment, she faced down nothing more exciting than a dusty pile of paperwork. And yet she had never, ever felt so hinky.

It was Gibbs. He hadn't said a word the entire morning.

Not a monosyllabic mutter to the team's morning greetings. Not a grunt to the mail delivery lady. Not even a "going for coffee" growl on the way to the break room. Functional mute or not, this was strange.

He looked the same as he always did. Calm. Confident. Dangerous. Just . . . quiet. She studied him closely, but his behavior gave away nothing—nothing more than he wanted it to. But Gibbs was good at that. Gibbs was good at many things, Ziva should know. She'd compiled a dossier on the man for Mossad months before she ever met him.

Now, five years on, her stomach churned with all the growly, defensive hinkiness that a post-Mossad, Gibbs-trained gut could muster, and she was reminded of that dossier. Ironically Ziva never mentioned the one thing Gibbs was best at in that old profile. The reason, simply, was that she hadn't known. Hadn't realized the extent of it at the time. These days she knew better. If she had to pick the one thing Gibbs was best at . . .

It was secrets.

Keeping them, if they were his own. Revealing them, if he happened to want to know what _you_ were hiding. Gibbs, needless to say, did not _hide _anything. When you knew what to look for it was painfully obvious that the secrets were there. On days like this they were the rhinoceros in the room - the angry one that no one dared to look at.

He must have felt her watching him now. He didn't seem to care.

His refusal to hide just made it all the more impressive, Ziva mused. Secrets. That was his ninja skill, the one honed so sharp you didn't even know it was there. Not unless you knew him like the team knew him. He certainly didn't bother to mask his mood that morning. Gibbs sat at his desk and did paperwork, radiatiating tension all the while like a weathervane quivering in an electrical storm.

At 1030 the elevator doors pinged, whooshed open, and Ziva knew immediately that the threat—whatever the threat was—had arrived.

Tony had the best view of the elevator bay. His face, never a subtle instrument, went still and hard. She turned to assess the situation. The executive consul to the Mexican ambassador and an entourage of aides stepped out of the elevator and swept past their desks. Her stomach stopped flip-flopping just long enough to sink.

Lawyers.

Not the kind of enemy she was trained to fight.

The team tracked the pack of politicos as it climbed the stairs to the director's office. They moved swiftly, with an air of money and power, and she knew instantly that they were dangerous. Dark suits and influence, well beyond her control.

Ziva narrowed her eyes as they were greeted on the landing by Director Vance. _A shiver of sharks_, she thought.

English did have its moments.

Gibbs straightened his shoulders and watched the arrival just like the rest of them. But his face was utterly blank, and when Vance's door snicked shut Gibbs simply returned to his paperwork. No bark at the team to get back to work. No sarcastic comments about the other careers they could pursue once he'd fired them all for lack of focus. Not even a glare.

Ziva and McGee shared a furtive glance. Her senses were literally prickling her skin, insisting that she act to stop whatever was going on in the director's office. But what could she do? Ushering this particular threat out at gunpoint did not seem a viable option. So she went through the motions of updating files while Gibbs methodically cleared every last scrap of paper from his desk. When she next glanced over its surface the hairs on the back of her neck rose. His desk was empty.

Tony gave up any pretense of work to stare at Gibbs outright. A pencil twirled in his long fingers, knocking rhythmically, irritatingly against his desk, until Gibbs lifted his eyes and returned Tony's stare with his own. The pencil stilled and the seconds drew out and Gibbs just sat there, watching his senior agent in a bullpen that was suddenly much too quiet.

Tony leaned back in his chair and grinned, as if he could beat back the strangeness with the force of his smile. "Have a good weekend, Boss?"

"Yeah. I did."

Tony's grin faded a bit, wilting under the force of Gibbs' calm attention. He tilted his head toward the director's office. "Everything alright?"

"Everything is fine, Tony," Gibbs said. Abruptly he stood and walked toward the head.

Ziva and McGee watched Gibbs stride toward the mens' room from the corners of their eyes, until the moment he'd disappeared behind the door. Then they leaned forward and growled. "_What is going on_?"

"How should I know?" Tony hunched his shoulders. "He called me Tony. That's never good."

McGee twisted in his chair to look up at the balcony. When he spoke his voice came out in that high-strung, computer-geek way that meant he was worried. "Any idea why the entire Mexican embassy is in Vance's office?"

No one answered him.

"They're here because of the boss, aren't they?"

Tony didn't say anything, but he gave Tim a look. A Gibbs look.

"Right," Tim said. "I'm really not a fan of Gibbs and, you know . . ." He trailed off for a moment. "Mexico. They shouldn't get together or interact in any way. Whenever Gibbs goes south of the border it's like someone threw matter and antimatter into a blender - "

"Yeah," Tony broke him off. "No idea what you're talking about, McGee."

"Doom," McGee said helpfully. "Catastrophe. Apocalyptic - "

"Agreed." Ziva leaned in, murmuring hurriedly, glancing between the men's room door and the director's office. "Something bad is going up."

Tony nodded. "Something is _up_ with Gibbs. Probably the same thing _going down_ in Vance's office."

Ziva frowned. "Going down, yes. That actually makes sense."

"Vance knows. Knew, I bet. And Gibbs knows, obviously. _We_ - " Tony's pencil whirled, whacked harder into the desk. They'd _just_ got him back from Dean and Bell and the Reynosas. From that whole damn mess! "-We, as usual, have not gotten the full sit-rep."

The mens' room door swung open and Gibbs reappeared.

Not ten minutes later the elevator doors pinged again. Ziva looked up from her report in time to see her partner's face fall, and then set into a loose arrangement that meant he was ready to start throwing punches. She whirled and watched five armed guards step away from the elevator. They were not guards she knew.

She turned back toward Gibbs, but movement outside the director's office caught her eye. The door swung open and the consul and his aides emerged, descending the stairs en masse.

Tony, Ziva and Tim rose to their feet as Vance and the lawyers came to a halt beside the security guards. Right next to Tony's desk.

An awkward pause, and then -

"Director, good morning!" Tony's grin was big and cheery, a Dinozzo special. "Looks like you've been busy today. And who are these fine folks?" His eyes drifted to a woman standing just behind the director's shoulder. She had red lipstick and long black hair. The smile took on just a hint of sincerity. "Hi there."

"None of your concern, Agent Dinozzo." Vance's eyes were fixed on Gibbs.

Ziva watched her mentor place his hands on his desk and push himself slowly to his feet. But his pace was brisk as usual when he walked around the desk and stood before the director. The two leaders considered each other for a long moment—proud mirrors, one of the other. Finally Vance nodded and moved aside.

Tony's eyes darted between them. "Boss?"

Gibbs paused then to look at Tony. "It's alright, Dinozzo." Voice quiet, so calm it bordered on gentle.

Tony stiffened.

"Focus on the job." Gibbs gestured at the paperwork scattered across his desk. He hesitated for a second, as if he might explain.

The agents leaned in.

"It's your lead now," Gibbs said finally. Then he stepped past Vance and walked easily toward the elevator, the phalanx of guards and officials moving with him. They crowded in and the doors pinged shut, and it was done. Gibbs was gone.


	2. Dysfunctional Mutes

**Chapter Two: Dysfunctional Mutes**

Vance turned on his heel and moved swiftly toward his office. He tossed a low, "You three, follow me," over his shoulder as he moved.

The director double-timed it up the stairs and swept past his assistant. The agents hurrying after him moved to take up their usual spots in front of the massive desk, but Vance gestured to the conference table. "Have a seat," he said, and took a place himself at the head of the table.

The team exchanged dubious glances. Tony felt the muscles in his forehead bunching up, the mother of all tension headaches creeping up his neck.

Gibbs was not nice and Vance was not nice, and the two of them stuck to routine like Marines to their rifles. Now both of his bosses were being nice. And keeping secrets, a combination that didn't bode well at all. Tony sighed, braced for the apocalypse that he just knew was coming, and folded himself into a seat next to his director.

Vance clasped his hands on the table in front of him and looked at each of them in turn. "Gibbs has been charged with the murder of a Mexican citizen named Pedro Hernandez. Hernandez was killed years ago but new forensic evidence has come to light. At the moment Gibbs is on his way to the Mexican embassy, where he will be taken into the custody of Federales and escorted to Mexico City."

Vance paused for a moment. When it became apparent that his audience was too stunned to respond, he continued. "Occasionally an agent charged with a crime is entitled to legal counsel by an NCIS staff attorney, and that kind of arrangement automatically keeps me – and by extension you – in the loop. But the Hernandez murder predates Gibbs' tenure as an agent. And the death of a Mexican civilian certainly lies outside our jurisdiction."

Vance paused again, this time seeming to brace himself. "Fortunately, Ms. Hart has volunteered to arrange for Gibbs' defense."

The director held up a hand as all three of them opened their mouths to protest.

"Hart's record in Mexico is impressive to say the least." Vance's referee voice put down any lingering rebellion. "As I'm sure you recall she had Colonel Bell out of there almost before his feet hit the ground. She's the best shot Gibbs has at walking away from this mess, and she's promised to keep me updated on the case. I will in turn let you know of any significant developments."

The director stood from the table.

"In the meantime you all have jobs to do. Gibbs is suspended until further notice. Agent Dinozzo, you're acting team leader. Agent McGee, you are acting senior field agent. If you find you need any extra help put in a request with Cecilia for a TAD."

Vance waited for a moment but received no response. The agents just sat there, staring at him mutely. Were they too surprised to say anything? Or was this a tactic to get him to say more? A bunch of mini-Gibbs if there ever was one, he thought.

"You're dismissed," he said abruptly, and headed for his desk.

Ziva and McGee got up and walked out. Tony lingered, watching the director shuffle paper. He drifted forward to stand in front of him. "Gibbs is leaving today?"

"Flying out of Dulles this afternoon."

"And what kind of security is he going to have in Mexico?"

Vance looked up sharply. "Why, think he's gonna stage a jailbreak?" Then he grinned. "Or are you planning on busting him out, Dinozzo?"

Tony felt frustration boil up in his gut. He welcomed it – better that than worry. He always felt ridiculous when he worried about Gibbs.

"Well that's an excellent suggestion, director, but at the moment I'm more concerned with the reception he's going to get in lockup." Tony gave Vance a hard smile and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You know, it's been awhile since I've been in the joint, but as far as I recall cops aren't winning any popularity contests in there."

Vance nodded. "Not that Gibbs wins popularity contests anywhere he goes," he sighed.

Tony noticed then that Vance might look a little tired. And was it possible that the man's suit was . . . rumpled?

"I'm pressing for as much security as I can get," Vance said. "Hart thinks the Mexicans will keep him away from the general population at least until his arraignment on Friday."

Vance studied Tony's face. "We'll do as much as we can for him. In the meantime you have a team to lead. I suggest you get to it." Vance looked back to his papers. "Gibbs knows how to look after himself."

Tony watched Vance shuffle files, not sure what to say. Because of course Gibbs knew how to look after himself. The problem was he didn't usually bother. It was Tony who looked out for Gibbs, just like Gibbs looked out for Tony.

Tony didn't say any of that, though. He just nodded and walked out.


	3. Deliberating

**Chapter Three: Deliberating**

That night Tony, Ziva, McGee, Abby, Ducky and Palmer gathered in Gibbs' basement to get hammered. Tony got there first, almost breaking his nose on the front door when it failed to open at a twist of the knob.

Gibbs must have locked up the house that morning, before he came into work.

Just the thought of that depressed the hell out of Tony. He stood there stupidly, hand pressed against the solid oak, until Ziva came up behind him and silently jimmied the lock.

An hour later Ducky walked down the basement steps to find the entire team slouched about in the dim light of the overhead lamp. "He's gone, then?"

Ziva nodded. "His plane is scheduled to arrive in Mexico City at 0500."

Ducky set a bottle of scotch on the workbench and pulled a glass tumbler from his pocket. He poured himself two fingers and plopped down on a stool pulled out from a nook in the woodwork.

"To ghosts," he said, his brogue giving the words an ironic twist, and knocked it back.

McGee raised his glass and coughed as his second ever straight-up bourbon blazed a trail down his throat. He'd tried sipping the stuff at first and promptly given up – he'd rather sip unleaded. But he sure as hell wasn't staying sober either.

That first shot of Gibbs' booze still burned like jet fuel in his gut. "So, what's the plan? We're gonna get him back, right?" He fixed Tony with a fuzzy, hopeful stare.

Well, it looked fuzzy to Tony, at any rate. The Dinozzos had a perfectly friendly relationship with bourbon. He was on his fourth.

"How are we going to 'get him back,' McGee," Abby demanded. She'd already confessed to the cold case she so coincidentally stumbled on in Mexico, as well as her role in the damning forensics that Gibbs faced. "He shot Hernandez and now they have the evidence, thanks to me! He's going to jail for the rest of his life." Abby buried her face in her hands. "Mexican jail," she moaned.

Tim rubbed her back sympathetically.

Tony glanced at them and away again, thinking absently that Tim would never dare to rub Abby's back like that if Gibbs were here. Abby sure wasn't protesting, though.

"Mexican jail is not a good place to be," Ziva agreed.

"Gibbs doesn't belong in any jail! Gibbs doesn't do things like this," Abby pleaded. She was looking at him uncertainly now, and Tony turned away to fiddle with a little cardboard box full of nails.

Tim leaned forward to rescue the tipping bottle from her grasp. Abby was clearly a chugger when it came to bourbon, much like McGee himself. "Maybe he didn't do it," McGee said. "Maybe the evidence was planted."

"He did it." Abby glanced around the room, suddenly sober and deadly serious. "He told me he did. He said my report was accurate."

A heavy stillness descended on them then – stifling and dark and just a little terrifying. Like the hood that comes before the noose.

"How?" Abby said lowly, and Tony winced at the misery in it. "How could _Gibbs_ . . . "

Ducky put an arm around Abby's shoulders from the other side and drew her close, sandwiching the scientist between himself and McGee. "You must remember that for all of his virtues Jethro is not a perfect man, Abigail. Indeed, he has never pretended to be. When those he cares for are hurt he is ruled by his darker emotions and deals out justice as he sees fit. Wether or not that is within the parameters of the law."

Ducky's voice dropped as he reached back with his freehand for the scotch on the workbench. "Or even within the parameters of a basic set of ethics," he sighed. "Given the man _is_ an officer of the law."

Abby shot him a glare at that, but it was half-hearted at best. For all that she could murder without leaving a trace of evidence, she knew in her heart she never would. She believed in justice. She believed in men like Gibbs – like the man she thought Gibbs was, anyway – who made the bad guys face their crimes in a court of law.

Tony huffed out a breath and began to walk slowly around the room, running a hand over satiny sanded wood, picking up random tools to examine them. "Putting it mildly, huh Ducky? Why not just say it like it is? You go after one of Gibbs' and Gibbs is gonna kill you. Full stop. Remember what he was like after Kate? He never had any intention of bringing Ari in."

Ziva picked up the dusty bottle sitting on the bench beside her and drained the last of it into her cup.

"That was different," Abby said. "Ari was trying to kill him, to kill _us_. Hernandez wasn't a threat to Gibbs anymore. It was pure revenge, taking the law into his own hands. He puts people away all the time for doing the exact same thing!"

Tony shook his head. "And he lets people off for it too, if he can. If he decides he wants to."

"What I don't understand is the evidence," Palmer spoke up. He'd sprayed his first ever sip of bourbon all over the worktable and was the only stone-cold sober one there.

"It's about as clear as evidence gets," Abby said. "Gibbs had motive, Gibbs had the murder weapon, Gibbs had opportunity. I'll take the Marine in Mexico with the Sniper Rifle."

"Um, no." The ME assistant was distracted for a second as he watched Abby sway. Then he managed to refocus. "I mean, well, why did he leave behind any evidence?"

"It would have been a simple matter to police his brass and destroy the body," Ziva nodded.

"He wasn't an NCIS agent yet," McGee said. "And he was . . . it was just after his family was killed. He wouldn't have been thinking about evidence in the heat of the moment."

"Ah. Don't let your loyalty blind you to the facts, Timothy," Ducky interrupted. His voice was kind, if firm. "You're too good of an investigator for that. This was not a crime committed in the 'heat of the moment,' as you say. Hernandez was hunted. His murder was planned."

"As a sniper Gibbs would know very well how to cover his tracks," Ziva said. "It would have been second nature to him. If he left such damning evidence behind he was either framed or he did so deliberately. But he told Abby that her report was accurate, so it seems that he was not framed," she puzzled aloud. "Which means it was deliberate. Is it possible that he wanted to be caught?"

At that they were all silent.

"I think Agent Macy figured it out, even without the ballistics," McGee finally said. "There was something weird between her and Gibbs when we went to LA, and Dean stole her notes from Camp Pendleton, from right after Hernandez was killed. When Gibbs was at Pendleton."

Tony nodded and looked at Abby. "When NCIS couldn't pursue Hernandez to Mexico, Franks gave Gibbs the information he needed to track a murderer down. Hernandez wouldn't have paid any other way. And when Macy figured out what he'd done she let him off. Because she knew he did the right thing."

Ducky closed his eyes and shook his head, wondering what Gibbs himself would have said to that declaration, if he was here. He suspected Tony would be surprised - but Ducky wasn't about to tackle it.

"Agent Macy may have given Jethro a reprieve, Anthony, but secrets have a way of coming to light, given time." The grandfatherly ME stood and picked up his coat. "And justice is a relentless mistress. Jethro knows _that_ as well as anyone. Unfortunately this is one predicament he won't be able to shoot his way out of, and much as we all care for him, I'm afraid our varied skills aren't much help to Gibbs now either. His fate is in the hands of the lawyers."

Ducky gave a final 'good heavens' shake of his head and picked up his hat. "Come along, Palmer, and drive an old man home."

As he moved toward the stairs the doctor looked sternly at the three agents and their forensics expert, all slumped about the basement in various states of inebriation. "None of you are driving anywhere tonight. Into the Morgan with me or sleep it off here, understood?"

Abby, Tim, Tony and Ziva nodded and waved him good-bye.

They talked for a bit. They were quiet too, just sharing the stillness with Gibbs' ghosts. By the time the first pale rays of sun streaked through the windows they'd finished every last drop of the boss's bourbon.

Abby watched Tony and Ziva tilt into each other, shoulders propped together, snuffling softly in sleep. The two of them looked almost as young as she usually did. Her eyes wandered to the center of the cement floor, where Gibbs had hugged her just a few days ago and refused to say he hadn't done it.

"Do you think he wanted to get caught, McGee?"

"I don't know, Abby," Tim sighed. And then slowly, "Maybe. Yeah."

Abby turned her face into his shoulder. "Me too," she whispered. _Just not by me._


	4. A Situation in Mexico

**Chapter Four: A Situation in Mexico**

Hart told them to expect the results of the arraignment late in the afternoon on Friday. That week Vance sent the team a flurry of petty crimes, just to keep them out of his hair.

Right after 1200 on Friday Tony's phone rang, the display showing Vance's extension. He blinked, thinking it was too early, but braced himself and picked it up. "Dinozzo," Vance said, "get your team up here."

Tony twitched, the slam of Vance's receiver carrying through the line. Then he was moving. "Director's office," he called, sweeping out from behind his desk.

"It's too early, he couldn't have been arraigned yet." Ziva paced him up the stairs.

McGee chased after them. "Maybe that's good. Maybe they dropped the charges quickly."

"Not likely, McGee." Ziva shook her head and glanced at Vance's assistant as they passed through into the office. Vance was standing there, waiting for them. One look at him and Ziva turned back to close the door. Then she returned to her station in front of his desk.

"We have a situation in Mexico," Vance began. "Gibbs and his escort were attacked on the way to the federal courthouse. There were several fatalities but as far as we know Gibbs isn't among them. He's missing, assumed kidnapped."

Vance looked each one of them in the eye, taking his time. "I don't think I have to tell you that this is an extremely dangerous situation for Gibbs. However, he's a private citizen at the moment, which means the US embassy and Mexican authorities are handling it." Vance turned a glare on them that McGee thought he must have learned from Gibbs. "NCIS is not involved in Gibbs' recovery at this time, understood?"

He paused for a moment and nodded at their silence.

"Good. Now, let me tell you what we know."

**x**

Tim looked attentive and calm as his director spoke. Tim always looked attentive when orders came down from superiors. Inside, though . . . his mind shot away from the office, away from his sworn duties, and zeroed in on the unsworn ones. He felt Gibbs' presence now as surely as he'd felt it a thousand times before – supporting him, pushing him, backing him up.

Beside him, he knew Tony and Ziva felt the same. The team's connection to Gibbs had long ago surpassed official duties and the chain of command.

Director Vance continued to speak, something about jurisdiction and agency precedents and international law. Tim didn't pay him any mind. Gibbs was a thousand miles away, alone, in trouble.

He let the director's warnings wash over him and fade away.

Nothing stood in Gibbs' way when it came to protecting his people. Nothing was going to stand in Tim's way, either. He figured they'd first need to find out everything they could about Gibbs' abduction. That meant reading the Federales' real-time internal files.

Hacking into Mexican intelligence shot to the top of Tim's mental to-do list. And at precisely that moment Tim felt the flat gaze of his boss's boss lock onto him.

"McGee, David, you can return to your desks," Vance said. "Dinozzo, stay a minute."

Tim turned and left the room, Ziva moving beside him. They stopped on the balcony to look out over the busy agency.

Ziva felt the knife tucked into its holster at the small of her back and the backup gun in its holster near her boot. Her reflexes and mental defenses gathered, as they always did in the face of a threat, and she felt bolstered, as she hoped she always would, by the solid presence of a teammate at her side. A teammate who looked decidedly busy for someone just standing there silently.

As they waited for Tony to emerge her mind turned south . . . she had contacts in Latin America, and favors to be called in. The murmuring and shuffling and polite motions of the agents in the cubicles below her faded away.

**x**

"Dinozzo," Vance's voice was terse. "You're lead agent of the team for the foreseeable future. No matter what is happening outside of this agency we all have a job to do within these walls. This is not a time for mistakes or hesitation. Think you're up to it?"

Tony's body was coiled – almost vibrating, like a spring. But his steady gaze hadn't left the director's since he first entered the office. It didn't waver now.

"Yes, sir."

Vance nodded and looked down at his desk, seemingly preoccupied with whatever was next on his agenda.

"Good. I know this is difficult. If circumstances were different . . . if this agency had the authority to retrieve him, I wouldn't hesitate to track one of our men down. Unfortunately, search and rescue on foreign soil isn't within our mandate. Now I know what NCIS owes him, I know what your team owes him. If you or your teammates need a few days leave to gather your thoughts, to refocus, Cynthia has the forms."

When Vance looked up his gaze bore into Tony's like a punch. "I'll sign off."

"Understood, sir."

Vance nodded to the door. "Dismissed."


	5. Bob's Your Uncle

**Chapter Five: Bob's Your Uncle**

Tony strode out of Vance's office and came to a halt next to Ziva and McGee. They were uncharacteristically quiet, staring down into the bullpen, both a thousand miles away.

He turned toward the elevator. "Campfire. Abby's lab. Now."

But when the elevator doors opened Abby was already there, pacing back and forth in the metal box. She motioned to them hurriedly, shifting from foot to foot as the grim-faced agents piled in. Abby hit the stop button the moment the doors closed and spun to grab Tim and Ziva's shoulders.

It was Tony she fixed with her big green eyes.

He grimaced. She usually gave Gibbs that look. It was absolute trust and faith and loyalty, all tied up in a terrified bow. He felt simultaneous urges to kiss her cheek and run.

"You know?" he asked.

Abby nodded.

Tim's brow furrowed distractedly. Abby glanced at him and rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, McGee, you have to ask? I wasn't going to let Gibbs be thrown to the Mexican lions without keeping an eye on him and Rivera wasn't the only contact I made at the symposium. Now focus! Gibbs is _kidnapped_."

Abby paused to look at them expectantly.

Approximately two seconds in she gave up on getting a satisfactory response from the shell-shocked agents. So she took a deep breath and yelled. "What are we going_ to do?_"

Ziva and Tim literally jerked back to the present. Tony nodded. It was time to step up. To do what Gibbs had taught him to do.

"We're going to get him back, Abs," he said.

Tony's voice was calm and low, but the words came fast. His eyes shifted from Abby to Tim and back again. "Do you know anyone there who'll give you information about the attack? Crime scene, suspects - anything?"

Abby returned his gaze in a steady, non-bubbly way that wasn't exactly encouraging. "I've kept in touch with a few of the forensic techs I met at the symposium."

Tony nodded. "Good. We'll need information on anyone who might have wanted Gibbs enough to kill for him. They took him alive – that's our first clue. I want a list of suspects and I want to know everything there is to know about them. Movements, bank accounts, phones, everything. That means the Reynosa cartel, rival drug lords, Colonel Bell's old crew, corrupt Federales, guns for hire – "

"Basically anyone in Mexico who might find a federal agent with twenty years of classified intel pertaining to the drug war or American national security valuable," Ziva interrupted. "There will be – well, thousands – "

Abby began a soft mantra under her breath. It sounded something like, "Oh god oh god oh Gibbs oh god oh god . . ."

Tony's eyes focused on McGee's forehead.

"Right. What we need is intel on all and sundry Mexican baddies," Tony confirmed. "And, of course, American ex-pats who hate Gibbs and just happen to be south of the border right now. Focus on any spikes in chatter over the last two weeks."

There was a pregnant pause.

Hey!" Tony reached up and cuffed the back of McGee's head. "I'm talking to you, McHacker."

McGee's eyes hadn't once left the floor of the elevator. His mind was already buried under an avalanche of Mexican servers. "I need to get downstairs. Data packets routed through firewire sourced by Latin American servers will be - "

Tony closed his eyes and shook his head like a dog with a bee up its nose.

"Uh," Tim frowned. "International hacking will be faster from Cyber Crimes." He looked at Ziva. "Your Spanish is better than mine."

She nodded. "I'm right behind you, McGee."

Before they could pull away Abby wrapped them all into a tight group hug. "What are we going to do about Vance?" she mumbled into Tony's shoulder.

He reached past a pigtail to flip the switch. "Bob's your uncle. I'll take care of Vance."

**x**

A few hours later Tony and Ziva were officially on leave and Director Vance was forced to shift all major crime response to backup teams. Agent McGee was conveniently assigned cold case review in the Cyber Crimes Unit.

Abby's response time to forensic analysis requests had slowed considerably for no good official reason, but no one dared to complain. Not to her face, at least. Gibbs might be missing but his team looked pretty determined to get him back, and anyway, Gibbs would likely return from his reserved spot in hell just to kick the ass of anyone who screwed with Abby.

**x**

Three days passed, time slipping away from them in a frenzy of research. It was a crash course for the entire team on the Reynosa cartel and every possible avenue of Mexican intelligence on the kidnapping.

Tuesday afternoon Tony sat in Abby's swivel chair, watching as she sucked down yet another Caf Pow and paced around him. Her phone was pressed to her ear and she listened impatiently to a rundown of current cases on the forensic docket in Morelos. The region was a center for drug trafficking and kidnapping in Mexico and Abby was seeking out any scrap of information on activity there from a friend of a friend of a tech she'd met at the symposium.

Spread out on the desk in front of Tony were piles of satellite images and an enormous map of the Republic of Mexico. The photos and map were covered in post-its with scribbled references indicating last known whereabouts of drug kingpins, assorted lackeys, and connections to Gibbs or the long-dead Hernandez.

They had no leads. None.

Tony stared at the little black dot marked Cozumel. He'd been there once when he was a kid, on one of his father's endless business vacations. After his mother . . . when it was lonely.

Cozumel was incredibly beautiful. A paradise. They'd gone sailing, Tony remembered. One of his father's associates had a gorgeous old sloop, all polished wood and brass and lean, elegant lines. There'd been a good wind and Tony had clung to a cold soda with one hand and the teak deck with the other, watching as the world tore by. Ignored by the men but happy for awhile there in the sun, carried by the wind and that endless moving water.

Gibbs would've really liked it. Tony wondered if he could ever maneuver the boss into taking him sailing. Wondered, just for a second, if the boss was still alive.

The daydream fell away when the door to Abby's lab flung back on its hinges and Ziva and McGee crashed into the room. Abby slammed down the phone as they skidded to a halt and sucked in air.

"What?" she barked.

McGee straightened up to report, no doubt alarmed by an Abby channeling Gibbs.

"Federales arrested a hitman last night south of Mexico City. He's a gun for hire, connected to the Reynosas." McGee leaned on Abby's desk and gulped another lungful of sweet oxygen. "The Mexican police think this guy was there when Gibbs was taken. We think they're right."

Tony shot to his feet even as McGee started shaking his head.

"We can't even ask to talk to him. First of all," McGee said, "This is classified Mexican intel. We _do not_ know any of it. Even if it wasn't, according to Mexican investigators the guy isn't talking. And even if he was, the US embassy isn't likely to get access to him until after his initial interrogation and arraignment. Could be weeks. But –" he glanced sideways at Ziva. She picked up the narrative seamlessly.

"I have a contact at Interpol who is based in Mexico City. He may be able to interview the suspect . . . informally."

"How long?" Tony demanded.

Ziva smirked. "I _promised_ to call him every half hour, for as long as it takes."

Nine hours and seventeen fruitless phone calls later Tony and Ziva sat with their backs against the wall on the floor of the lab, crumpled napkins and the styrofoam remains of barbeque takeout scattered between them. McGee and Abby had curled up on the futon in the opposite corner an hour ago and looked to be sound asleep.

Tony's arms draped over his knees, the watch on his left wrist gleaming in the soft night lights of the lab. He'd shucked his suit for a t-shirt and jeans the moment the paperwork for his leave was filed.

Ziva watched out of the corner of her eye as as he flexed his hands, the tendons in his arms shifting under the skin. She knew Tony was working himself up to saying something. She just wasn't sure what.

Tony considered how to begin. He'd never been good at gentle interrogation. Gibbs usually handled that, right along with the scared kids and the grieving survivors and the wounded people . . .

But Gibbs wasn't here. That was the point.

"The Reynosas just released him a couple weeks ago," he pondered quietly. "Why take him again?" He tilted his head lazily toward Ziva but managed to stop himself from looking right at her. He kept his tired eyes on the blinking machinery and the dark windows beyond. A glance toward the shadowy futon showed no movement from Abby or Tim.

Ziva's gaze didn't waver from the windows, as far as he could tell. She'd been still as a statue for hours. Tony figured she could sit there for days and never twitch.

Finally she sighed and stretched out her legs, speaking low to let the others sleep. "You really want me to answer that, Tony?"

At his silence she continued. "The Reynosas have many motives for killing Gibbs. Punishment for refusing to be their mule in Washington. A warning to American law enforcement and the drug task force. Revenge for their father."

Tony's hands flexed again. "Yeah. But if they were after revenge they could've just shot him in the ambush. Kidnapping Gibbs is a hell of a lot riskier. There must be a reason." He cringed a little. Of course there was a reason - an obvious one. He really wasn't any good at this.

"Yes. It is more likely that they want him for information. Or as a hostage, for ransom."

"They haven't made any demands," Tony said, very quiet now.

Ziva hesitated. It was hard to sit there and put words to it, when it was Gibbs and she knew . . . knew exactly what she was talking about. "Information is more likely at this point."

He couldn't let it go, he needed to know. Tony reminded himself of that and laced his fingers together to keep them absolutely steady. A trick he'd picked up from Gibbs. "You said once that no one can hold out for more than a few days. With a trained interrogator it's even less – maybe a few hours."

"Yes, if I am interrogating them that is true," she said tonelessly.

"Gibbs has been gone for three days."

Ziva was silent for awhile. "I doubt they will be looking for specific information, Tony. Gibbs has decades of experience. He's worked with every branch of the United States military and run covert operations all over the world. We know that he has personal and professional connections at NCIS, the FBI, the upper levels of the military, the CIA. . . . " Ziva trailed off, then picked up the thread again. "He almost certainly has information and connections beyond this that we are not aware of. Gibbs would be extremely valuable to any international criminal organization with interests in the United States."

Tony didn't bother to respond. He knew all that, and Ziva knew that he knew. He tightened his grip on his fingers, though his hands were steady, and forged ahead into what he didn't know. "So the techniques are different for . . . general information?"

She was still, so still it almost seemed she wasn't there.

"Yes."

He groped for the right questions. "The truth serum Saleem used on me. Is that common?"

Ziva's gaze wandered from window to window, to Tony's profile, and back to the windows. "It is not uncommon." She flicked her wrist impatiently, as if irritated by her own noncommittal answers. "Individual formulas may differ slightly, but so-called truth serums are easy to make. However, they are not all-powerful. It is possible to resist them, with practice. It was part of my training at Mossad. We know Gibbs was a covert agent, that he ran black ops. It is likely he received similar training."

Tony nodded, trying to keep the rhythm up. A purely informational interview. "Okay, let's assume he's immune to truth serum. What comes next?"

"A prisoner like Gibbs is a liability. If his captors are impatient they will kill him immediately. That seems unlikely since they took the trouble to kidnap him in the first place," she said dryly. "If they can find time and a secure location they will wear him down and kill him only after he has given up the bulk of what he knows. At least, whatever he knows that is relevant to their interests."

She sighed and finally answered the unspoken question. "Gibbs is strong. Stronger than I am - than any of us, Tony, but - " she took a careful breath. "If they are thorough . . . I would guess two weeks, maybe three. After that they will know what he knows, or whatever web of lies Gibbs might try to spin for them. They will kill him then, almost certainly."

That was all he needed to know, for Gibbs. They had two weeks, maybe three.

But he felt the other question sucking him in. One that had nothing to do with their boss. The one that had been hovering between him and Ziva for almost two years.

Well, Ziva would tell him where to stuff it if she didn't want to answer. He turned his head to squint at her through the dim light. "You too, huh? Two weeks?"

"Yes," she said evenly. "That is why information is compartmentalized at Mossad, even within the team. It is safer for everyone to know as little as possible."

Tony nodded, kept his face impassive.

She'd been in Saleem's camp for three months. A liability all that time. Now he knew without doubt that they did not keep her for information. But they had kept her.

What for – well. Ziva was beautiful. Stunning. Tony had heard men on the street gasp when she walked by them, actually gasp.

Her magnetism certainly influenced Tony's relationship with her. It played into how screwed up things got with Rivkin. Fed Tony's anger, made it all too personal. Goaded him on as he pulled at her last, desperate loyalty to her lover and her family. To the oaths she had sworn to her country. He hadn't really cared about that. Hadn't cared about anything but her loyalty to NCIS. To him.

Over the last few years he'd wondered, when he was really drunk and maudlin, if he wasn't just one more in a long line of men who'd tried to control her. To hold something so beautiful to him, and not let go no matter how she struggled, no matter what it did to her.

Tony shifted, took a breath, and shoved the past away. He wasn't perfect, he knew that. But he wasn't like her father either, or her old partners at Mossad.

It wasn't Tony's fault she ended up a prisoner in that camp. Wasn't hers either. It was all just impossibly fucked up. How could you be on Gibbs' team and Mossad's team at the same time? How could you trust anyone - even Gibbs - when you'd grown up in _that_? You couldn't. It'd all blown up in their faces. And why?

Because they had not wanted her to be a liaison. Not the men she worked with at Mossad. Not the men she worked with at NCIS. They all wanted her for themselves, true only to them.

Back then he'd sat at his desk for three months after she disappeared, and done nothing. He'd known_ that_ wasn't right even then, while he was doing it. Month after month of nothing. Wondering. Hesitating.

And all that time, a sick fuck like Saleem was reveling in having something so beautiful in his grasp, someone so proud under his thumb.

Shame and fear and exhaustion rose up in his chest and tore at him like an animal, a physical pain, squeezing his heart until he gathered all his will and pushed it back down. He couldn't think about that now. He never wanted to think about it again. He gripped his own hands and focused on what he could fix.

They were going to get Gibbs back. Gibbs was stronger than all of them. He had two weeks, maybe three. And Tony would not hesitate this time, that was for damned sure. He would never again sit back and do nothing.

Ziva checked her watch and picked up the phone.

* * *

><p><em><strong>an: <strong>__Thanks for reading, and for the feedback! __You might recognize a couple of lines from this and the previous chapter, since I stole them shamelessly from Season 7:_

_**Gibbs**__: Hey! That it?_

_**Dinozzo**__: Yeah. What else is there?_

_**Gibbs**__: Well, maybe we send a couple of agents to the region._

_**Dinozzo**__: What for?_

_**Gibbs**__: Gather some intel. You know, put some eyes on the target. Change the circumstances._

_**Dinozzo**__: Change . . . the circumstances. And you can sell that to Vance?_

_**Gibbs**__: Oh yeah, strictly investigatively. Of course._

_**Dinozzo**__: Of course. Wow, you guys have a whole little thing going on that I'm not seeing. But I get it. Wink wink, nudge nudge, Bob's your uncle. I'm hip. I dig it._

_**Gibbs**__: Good. Gonna need volunteers._

_**Dinozzo**__: I volunteer myself and Special Agent McGee for the secret fact finding mission thingy._

- From _NCIS: Truth or Consequences_


	6. You're Not Going to Like It

**Chapter Six: You're Not Going to Like It**

McGee and Tony dozed on Ducky's autopsy tables. Ziva slumped in the medical examiner's swivel chair, sound asleep under the soft ever-present glow of the emergency lights.

Ducky hadn't even tried to cajole them home when he left hours before. He only said the same thing he'd been saying to them for the last six days.

"You'll get him back."

A reassurance laced with demand.

Ziva's cell shattered the quiet, ringing at its loudest volume and driving the three agents bolt upright instantaneously. She answered before the first ring died, holding up a finger for silence as Tony and McGee crowded close. She listened for a minute, spoke in rapid fire Spanish, listened again. Finally she spoke a low _gracias_ into the receiver and ended the call.

She stared at them blankly for a beat, until Tony got in her face. "Ziva," he growled.

"Yes." She blinked and came back to herself. "My contact was able to get into the holding cells and interrogate the suspect. He believes it is true that this hit man was involved in the ambush. The suspect claims that the Reynosa cartel hired a crew to kidnap Gibbs, along with several Mexican agents."

Ziva paused, looking into McGee's eyes and then Tony's. They both had such pale eyes, and they looked at her so openly.

She bit her lip. Her two teammates were not exactly innocent, she knew that. But they did not have the same experience with evil that lay rotting in her own past, either. You could see it in their eyes. They were . . . clean. Had never felt it brush up against them, as seductive as it was awful, like the foulest kiss. Never felt its pull.

No one on the team understood that part of her - except, perhaps, for Gibbs. She did not think the others even recognized what was inside of her for what it was, or really knew that it was there.

She loved her teammates. But somehow, over the years, she had come to _need_ Gibbs. And at that moment she missed him desperately.

Ziva tore her eyes from theirs and forced herself to continue, her voice even. Unaffected. "The abducted Mexican agents were kept by the Reynosas. But Gibbs . . . this _source_ says that Gibbs was sold."

The too open eyes blinked at her. And then -

"_Sold?_" McGee echoed. "Like - ransom? To who?"

Ziva tensed. "No. Not like ransom. His information is valuable, McGee, many would pay to have him. I do not know to who," she went on. "If the suspect knew the name of the organization he did not give it up. But he said that it _was_ an organization. And that the men he dealt with were Colombian."

"Colombians," Tony muttered, and shoved away from the others to pace around the room.

You can piss off only so many powerful people before it all comes back to haunt you. And Gibbs had fought so recklessly, in so many petty wars. Pissed off so many, many evil people . . . a flash of despair bubbled in Tony's gut.

He'd felt this way once before. When they first realized that Ziva was missing in Africa. This same shameful feeling had grabbed at him, paralyzed him. It was fear, really - fear that this just might be _bigger_ than them. That Gibbs' team had finally come up against something stronger than them.

That they'd lost before they even began.

"Oh," McGee breathed. "Fuck."

There's our little McGenius, Tony thought. That sums it up pretty well.

Tony could feel their eyes on him. His team's eyes. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, using the distraction and the few seconds to gather up his doubt. Then he crumpled it into a little ball and smashed it into nothing.

Gibbs never showed doubt. Tony wouldn't either. The team needed that arrogance - the absurd, almighty confidence. Tony would be damned if he wasn't going to give it to them.

"Okay," he said firmly. "I'm going to to update Vance. You two fill Abby in and get to work. I want intel on Colombians operating in Mexico. We need to know who took him and where they went. Meet you in the lab."

The three agents scattered.

**x**

An hour later Tony stalked into Abby's domain and launched into a speech before he'd even fully entered the room.

"Listen up, my people. Vance thinks we'll need CIA intel if we can't figure this one out on our own and you know how I feel about calling up the CIA for help. So tell me what you've got."

"Um," Abby started, "Well, we have a lot actually. But you're not going to like it."

Tony sighed as he sank down onto one of Abby's lab stools. "Lay it on me."

"Well first off, it pays to have Mexican forensic friends. Two weeks ago the Federales and men from a Colombian cartel fought it out in the streets of a slum outside of Merida, a small city on the Gulf Coast." Abby pointed to a location on the GoogleEarth map she'd pulled up. "It was a total bloodbath. Over sixty people killed, a lot more wounded." Abby's fingers flew over her keyboard and a mugshot appeared on her screen. "Roberto Londono is thought to be the head of the Colombian gang that's recently been active in eastern Mexico – including Merida. And, well - " Abby cleared her throat. "Londono was a lieutenant in the old Calera cartel."

Tony stiffened. The Caleras were infamous. "I thought they busted the top Calera guys years ago and the organization broke up."

Tim nodded seriously. "It did. But it looks like Londono's been putting the pieces back together. Crime that can be traced back to former Calera operatives has exploded in Colombia over the last five years."

"What's this got to do with Gibbs?" Tony sighed.

"Londono's not satisfied with Colombia anymore," Abby said. "According to the Federales he's making serious efforts to expand into Mexico. Supply lines to the States, a network for drug distribution, money laundering – all the essentials for making big bucks are there for the taking in Mexico, if you're willing to fight for the market. The Caleras are already one of the most powerful cartels in the world. If they expand . . . "

Tony reminded himself not to grind his teeth. He shouldn't be surprised. Gibbs never did anything half-assed, did he? What was wrong with being kidnapped by normal criminals, like a normal federal agent? Were your average drug runners just not badass enough?

No. Of course they weren't. Leroy Jethro Gibbs would always shoot for the stars. He had to piss off only the biggest and scariest of all the very scary badasses in all the big bad world. Good job, Gibbs. Aim high.

"Would someone please tell me how this relates to Gibbs," he ground out.

Abby didn't seem to want to put voice to it. After a pause McGee stepped in. Always the gentleman. "The Federales believe that Londono's organization has become allied with the Reynosa cartel," McGee said. "The fight in Merida lasted for days, but in the end the Mexican Army were able to kill or arrest many of the Calera fighters hiding outside the city. After the loss in Merida Londono would be eager for information that Gibbs probably has. Think about it – personal knowledge of American agents working in Mexico, of the anti-drug task force, of operations here in the States. And uh . . . there's also . . . well."

McGee glanced at Abby. She was chewing her lip nervously and staring at Tony with the "fix-it" look.

"Words, McGee," Tony pressed.

McGee cleared his throat and rallied. "The Calera cartel was founded by three brothers in the late 70s." He turned to Abby's computer and brought up three mugshots of well-dressed men, all sporting extremely 80s hair.

Tony wrinkled his nose as he leaned forward to study them.

"By all accounts Londono was a close family friend from childhood, as well as a lieutenant in the gang," McGee went on. "Almost a fourth brother. The organization grew through the 1980s and began routinely carrying out political killings and kidnappings in Colombia. They took out several American agents and became one of our principle targets in the drug war."

McGee's attention had been darting nervously between Tony and the computer he was working on, but now he looked up at Tony and held his gaze, steady as you please.

"All three of the brothers were assassinated within a two week period in 1992," he said.

The date hung in the air for a moment.

"After that the Calera organization fragmented into regional gangs. Londono and other lieutenants took over pieces of it and fought each other for power for years, which limited their influence. Lately intelligence suggests that many of the fragmented pieces are working together again. It seems Londono is rebuilding the old cartel with himself at the head."

"And no one was ever pinned for the assassinations?" Tony asked. Already resigned.

"No."

The team exchanged significant looks.

"Alright. We know Gibbs was in Colombia in '92," Tony muttered. "And as a black-ops sniper. He could easily be the assassin." The team nodded. "And the Reynosas have been digging into his past for a long time. They would know enough about Gibbs to put two and two together on that."

"The Calera brothers were all killed with a single shot to the head or chest, for what it's worth," Abby spoke up reluctantly. "One long-range round each according to newspaper accounts at the time."

"So they were killed by snipers, or a sniper. Even if it wasn't Gibbs he would have information on the drug war in the region when the assassinations took place," Ziva considered. "He also has inside information on Mexico now, just as the reformed Calera gang is trying to get a foothold in Mexico. Finally he's a route to revenge for Londono, if he has somehow found proof that Gibbs was one of the assassins behind his adoptive brothers' deaths."

"Oh, damn!" Abby slammed her hand down on the lab table, her face crumpling in front of them. "The ballistics that tied Gibbs' rifle to the Hernandez case. All the details were published in my report! Any forensic scientist with access to US databases - "

"Would be able to tie the kills Gibbs made with that rifle back to him," Tony finished grimly.

Tony gripped Abby's countertop and swore as the events of the last few weeks came together in his mind. "The Reynosas were planning this all along. I mean come on, leaving Gibbs' fate up to _lawyers_?"

Ziva and Tim were nodding. "If they have Gibbs," Ziva mused, "then the Reynosas have something valuable to bring to the table when haggling with the Colombians that are encroaching on their territory. Handing over Gibbs could cement a business relationship with the new Calera cartel. And, of course, the Reynosas would know that Gibbs would pay for their father's death. Two kills with one stone."

The agents were silent for a moment as the enormity of that sank in. Gibbs had pissed-off not one but _two_ of the most powerful cartels in the world. And now the man was in their hands.

Actually, pissed-off was something of an understatement.

Tony looked up at Abby. "We haven't even gotten to the part I'm not going to like yet, have we?"

He was teasing her at that point. In the throes of her worry for Gibbs, Abby's protective instincts for all of them were on high-alert. She didn't want to bring up anything that might remind him of Jeanne. But he was over that now, mostly. Abby fidgeted and glared at him half-heartedly. It was Ziva who answered.

"No. The part that you aren't going to like involves evidence from the gun battle in Merida. The preliminary reports were processed by Mexican law enforcement but sent to us courtesy of a friend of Abby's at the CIA – our sister agency." Ziva's sarcasm was hard enough to bounce off the walls. "The shootout was monitored, my own sources say instigated, by the CIA. They also say there is only one man to talk to at that agency about the drug war currently raging in Colombia. Only one based in DC, at any rate."

Tony nodded. He'd already heard it from Vance. "Kort."

"Yes, Trent Kort." Ziva threw him a look, startled that he'd known all along. "Apparently Kort was selected for the operation against La Grenouille because he was completely unknown in Europe at the time. His specialty before the Frog was Latin and South America. But according to my contact he has returned to his old haunting grounds now that his mission in Europe is complete. And that means he may have information that we can use. The assassinations in '92 in Colombia and the battle in Medina two weeks ago both have CIA footprints all over them," Ziva concluded.

"Right," McGee said. "But that could be a good thing." He turned earnestly to Tony. "If the CIA is tied up in what's happening with the Calera cartel right now then they'll be tracking movement between Mexico and Colombia. If Londono has Gibbs he would want to move him out of Mexico as quickly as possible, right? Gibbs would be more secure on their own turf. The drug war is fought in the open in Mexico, but in Colombia?" McGee shook his head. "In remote regions some of the cartels have had the upperhand for years. Intel on their activities is gathered almost entirely by covert methods. If anyone has information on where Gibbs might be right now, and how to get him out of there, it's the CIA."

Tony bent his head into his hands, elbows resting on Abby's pristine countertop, and rubbed his forehead for a moment. Then he sucked it up. He hated Kort and he always would. But the man might have the information or the contacts that they needed to find Gibbs. Nothing else mattered.

"Right," he said, still speaking to the countertop. "Time to prove my love for the bossman. Suppose you've got the number, Abs?"

Abby grinned as she pushed a slip of paper with Kort's personal cell scribbled on it across the counter to Tony.

Maybe it was lack of sleep, or too many Caf-Pows, but she felt an unusually sappy swell of love right then for Gibbs' team, and a little bubble of optimism for the boss, too. Gibbs put this group of people together. He'd patched them into a sort of makeshift family, and family was a powerful thing. No matter how terrible his enemies were, Abby knew the team's love for the boss was just as fierce. Fiercer. Together they were stronger than anything anyone could throw at them. Together, they would get Gibbs back.

She turned and gave McGee a spontaneous hug.


	7. You're Really Not Going to Like It

**Chapter 7: You're Really Not Going to Like It**

Tony was a procrastinator, especially when he needed to do something he didn't want to do. Filling out forms. Cleaning the van. Signing up for inane mandatory seminars. He'd talk about it endlessly and strategize how to best get out of it, and then finally, complaining all the way, he might just do it. Or more likely, get McGee or Ziva to do it.

So no one was expecting him to call Kort _right there_ in Abby's lab. Until he dialed.

The phone was ringing before the team registered that Tony was cold calling his most loathed nemesis. They gaped for a split second that was truly amusing. Tony winked and grinned back at them.

Ziva was the first to recover, as usual. "Are you insane?" she hissed, snatching the phone. "Gibbs will die of old age before Kort goes out of his way to help _you_!"

She pulled the phone up to her ear and her voice morphed instantly into a warm, professional clip. "Agent Kort, this is Ziva David at NCIS. I would like to speak with you about a situation involving Agent Gibbs. Please call me at this number – it is urgent."

She ended the call and folded her arms, still glaring at him. Tony smothered a laugh. Truth be told he'd almost been concerned when the phone got to the ringing stage and he found himself still actually holding it. He should have known her ninja reflexes wouldn't let him down.

"More waiting," Abby moaned. "This is killing me." Abruptly she turned to McGee. "How fast do you think the CIA loads new satellite imagery into its databases?"

McGee glanced at Tony. "Fast. Might be worth a shot. No telling when Kort will get back to us, or what he'll be willing to share when he does."

Tony looked them over thoughtfully. He knew McGee and Abby were good. But the CIA would know, sooner or later, that files containing information of particular interest to NCIS – namely Gibbs' team – had been breached. Still, Vance insinuated that the agency could take the heat. It made Tony wonder what the director had on the CIA. It must be good. Unless Vance was secretly just as ballsy as Gibbs ever was . . .

McGee and Abby were both looking at him, waiting for him. He nodded. "Do it."

Thirteen minutes later Tony's cell rang. Abby and McGee, engrossed in prying open classified CIA files, continued to hammer away at their keyboards.

Tony glanced at his caller ID and then at Ziva. "Well that was fast. It's him." He opened the phone and placed it on the counter. Ziva leaned forward to hit the speaker button. "This is Ziva David."

"Get out of our satellite cache, David."

In the background of the lab the clacking of keys abruptly stopped.

"Kort," Ziva said. "Thank you for returning my call."

"Get out of our files or this call - and your careers - will be shorter than you want them to be." Kort sounded unconcerned. Bored, even, as if he'd just told an annoying little sister to stop hogging the cornflakes. Then again, he pretty much always sounded like that, and he'd never struck any of them as one for idle threats.

Tony waved hurriedly at Abby and McGee and the keys instantly started up again. The clacking was distinctly frantic.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Ziva said smoothly.

She paused. A few seconds later a wide-eyed Abby gave them a thumbs-up.

Ziva continued, "We are not in your files. I called because we are looking for information on some recent movement in Colombia. We understand you may also have an interest in the area."

A pause on the other end of the line.

"Kort?"

"Meet me at the north end of Clifton Park in an hour," he said, and the line went dead.

Tony reached out and snapped his phone shut.

He knew the CIA was _supposed_ to be sneaky. But he really hadn't expected Kort to surprise him quite this much. He turned to Ziva. "I expected that conversation to involve more begging. For starters. Then I thought we'd move into groveling and bribery and threats."

Ziva nodded thoughtfully, still staring at the phone.

"Where the hell is Clifton Park?" Tony asked the room.

Abby pulled up GoogleEarth, clacked a bit, and winced. "Oh. This is kind of . . . whoever's going to this meeting needs to leave now. Want me to send coordinates to the car?"

Tony nodded. "Ziva, you're with me. You two . . ." Tony trailed off, looking the geeks over more closely. " . . . You two are too pleased with yourselves to have just turned and run from the Big Bad Kort," he said. "You kept the CIA imagery somehow, didn't you?"

McGee and Abby smiled back at him sweetly.

Tony loved his crazy ass team, he really did. "Well, look it over, see what you can get from it." He shook his head as he walked out of the lab, Ziva at his side. "You know, when you think about it those two are a little scary. If they can hack into the CIA in ten minutes . . ."

Ziva nodded seriously, keeping pace with his long legs as they turned away from the elevator and headed briskly up the stairs, taking a shortcut to the parking lot. "Yes. They can easily access our personal computers, accounts, internet history . . . That is why I am always careful to be nice to Abby and McGee."

She smirked at his frown, then grabbed the keys from his hand. "We'll get there faster if I drive."

**x**

They tore through the fringes of hard-hit working class neighborhoods until finally reaching Clifton Park, which itself had seen better days. Well, Tony hoped it had. There was a sad sort of playground on the south side, dust from the dirt-packed ground and a few rusty metal swing sets and battered see-saws drifting in the warm spring breeze. The park had a scruffy, more-or-less green soccer field in its center, a lumpy brown running track laid around the perimeter.

Ziva parked the car on the north side, where a slight hill led up to a grassier area offering a view of the field. A few beautiful old trees lent shade to a group of benches and picnic tables. Kort was already there, reading a newspaper at one of the tables. Besides a few young kids and their mothers, gathered around the swing sets across the field, the three agents were the only people there.

Ziva gave Tony a look as they climbed out of the car, her eyes saying _stay calm_. He was telling himself the same thing. Kort rubbed him the wrong way on a good day. But today Gibbs was missing. Tony was short on sleep, overloaded on stress, and trying to bury the worry stalking around the back of his mind – the constant what if. What if Gibbs was hurt? If they couldn't find him? Never found him? What if he was already dead?

Tony took a breath and reminded himself that Kort was a contact they needed. If Gibbs could work with the slimy bastard Tony could damn well grit his teeth and do the same.

Well, not quite the same.

"If anything proves my total and unconditional love for Gibbs," he complained as they set out across the grass, "this is it. This is the big romantic finale. I'm climbing a fire escape with roses in my teeth as we speak."

They reached the table and Tony continued without skipping a beat. "Kort!" He said cheerily, and slid into the bench on the opposite side of the picnic table. "Long time no see. Such a shame. What an interesting meeting place, always fun to explore, and such a nice neighborhood too. Well. We'd love to catch up but," Tony raised his wrist and wriggled his watch. "Tick-tock. And we wouldn't want to keep you from, you know, whatever dictators or arms dealers you're busy cozying up to these days, so let's make this snappy. You know where he is or what?"

Kort folded the paper and laid it down on the table. He looked irritated as he waited for Ziva to settle on the bench beside her partner. Tony grinned, satisfied.

"Everything I am about to say is classified beyond your wildest clearance dreams," Kort finally said. "Repeat it and you'll become authorized targets of the CIA."

Tony and Ziva nodded to the unspoken question. Ziva felt her heartbeat speed up. The warning could only mean one thing.

"I know where he is," Kort said simply. He slipped a manila envelope out of the newspaper's folds and took two satellite photos from it. "Your lackeys may have these images but they don't understand what they're looking at." He slid the top photograph across the table to them, pointing to a tiny pale speck on an almost uniformly black picture. "This is an outpost of the new Calera cartel, located in the northern jungles of Colombia. We call it Camp Six. As you can see it's remote," he said dryly.

Tony and Ziva leaned in to study the photo. Most of the image was dark, they saw now, but it wasn't completely black. Dozens of thin, true black lines twisted through the dark gray of the jungle canopy – the black lines must be streams, or rivers, Tony thought, depending on the photo's scale. Tiny blocks of lighter gray could just be made out, clustered somewhat to the north and east of the camp, and scattered occasionally throughout the rest of the picture.

Kort circled the camp, indicated the gray blocks. "The gray squares are coca or opium plantations. Some fields are planted with marijuana as well."

There didn't seem to be any roads, and the camp itself was not on a waterway. "It is supplied by air?" Ziva asked.

The CIA agent nodded. "Anything needed from the outside world is flown in. Product is flown out. Motorized patrols run through the area on small roads – more like tracks, really," Kort grimaced. "These routes can't be seen from the air due to jungle canopy. We believe Gibbs was flown into Camp Six two days ago." Kort sat back and watched the two agents study the photograph with new intensity. "According to our sources they'll keep him there until their interrogation specialist can be brought in. That will probably happen in the next five to eight days."

Kort took a breath and wished he still smoked. Smoking was made for conversations like this. "I wouldn't bother with one of your heroic rescues if you don't make it to him before the specialist does."

Tony opened his mouth.

"Please don't be so stupid as to ask where I'm getting my information." Kort slid the second photo over the first, never pausing in his narrative. "A close-up of the camp."

Tony felt his eyes go wide. Beside him Ziva cursed in Hebrew. The scale of the first photo was suddenly clear. The "camp" was a small city.

Kort pointed to a dense area on the upper edge of the photo, filled with row after row of tiny squares. "Barracks," he said. "Here," he indicated the lower edge of the photo, "are garages, helicopter hangers, equipment and supply storage."

He pointed to a thick line running along the bottom edge. "Air-strip. The larger buildings next to it are the labs. Along the east side are quarters for well-heeled visitors and the cartel's lieutenants. The rest of it," Kort swept his hand over the less tidy area that sprawled through the western half of the photograph, "are markets and make-shift shelters built by the workers. Field hands and lab rats live there. As you can see the squatters bleed into the fields and jungle to the west. There's wire surrounding everything valuable – labs, hangers, barracks. You can't see the fence itself in this image but the four corners are marked by guard towers." He pointed out fuzzy gray blocks that were apparently towers.

"There are mini camps closer to the fields for plantation workers," Kort continued rapidly. "The fields are guarded by squads of soldiers that rotate into and out of the main camp, some daily, some weekly. Smaller squads patrol on foot and in trucks."

Ziva and Tony looked up at him, questioning.

"The patrols are the elite." Kort answered before they could ask. "Though none of these soldiers are decorative. They engage regularly with rival gangs throughout Colombia and in neighboring countries. They also fight off rebel guerilla forces who want to take over their operations. We support their efforts against the rebels, so cartel fighters have often been trained by ex-US and occasionally Israeli Special Forces personnel. There are fishing villages to the north and ranch land to the south and east. Calera squads deploy there frequently to keep the local population in line."

Ziva's eyes moved rapidly over the photos, committing their smallest details to memory. "So Londono has rebuilt the Calera's paramilitary army," she said. "How effective does your agency judge his soldiers to be?"

Kort folded his hands on the table in front of him and squinted off into the distance. There were a couple of older kids dribbling a soccer ball through the trees now, Tony noticed. He watched them for a second, ensuring they stayed out of hearing range.

"We estimate they have between seven and ten thousand fighters in total, with three to eight hundred based at Camp Six, depending on activity in the area. Substantial reinforcements are under an hour away as long as the airstrip is active."

Ziva nodded grimly. The figures were not unusual for such an organization.

"They are well-trained and have an endless supply of money and equipment from the drug trade. They're ruthlessness," Kort said neutrally. "The local population is terrified of them and rival forces respect them. The government does not interfere with their territory. They've been fighting a civil war in Colombia almost continuously since 1964, so there's no shortage of combat experience. At the moment the reformed Calera cartel is a law unto itself. They hold absolute power in the region."

"So the answer to Ziva's question is 'very effective,'" Tony said. "And of course they are. Right-wing drug-running dirtbags have been trained by CIA-led Special Forces in Colombia for decades. Thanks a lot for that, Kort, by the way. Here's what I'd like to know. Why are you telling us this?" Tony didn't wait for an answer. "Let me guess – you're hoping we'll head down there and get our heads stuck on pikes at the camp gates. I'm not sure though . . ." Tony squinted at the photo and tilted it toward the afternoon sun, "if you'll really be able to get a good look at our mutilated corpses. This picture's a little grainy. What do you think, Ziva?"

Kort rolled his eyes and looked to Ziva as if to the voice of sanity.

She raised her eyebrows. They clearly said _I'm waiting for you to answer my partner's imminently reasonable question. _Tony propped his chin in his hand and grinned.

Kort shook his head. "The agency can't lend its official support to any operation against this cartel. Londono isn't just running a criminal organization. He's considered the head of one of the larger private paramilitary groups currently fighting Colombia's rebel army. In this he is our ally, albeit a silent one, as well as an ally of the Colombian government. That government has been fighting the same terrorist army for forty years, with the advice of the U.S. military," Kort smiled coldly at Tony, "and the CIA, of course. Ostensibly we need men like Londono if we're ever going to win that war."

"So he gets a free pass for murder, kidnapping, and selling cocaine on the side?" Ziva asked incredulously.

"All sides of this fight are dirty," Kort said tiredly. "There is no way to both win the civil war and stay clean in the drug war. However, Londono is making a lot of people unusually nervous. He's built a veneer of respectability and kept his criminal activity hidden, which only makes him more powerful. We didn't closely monitor the many smaller organizations he now controls until they became part of the larger cartel. He's gaining influence by the day and is extremely reclusive. We don't know enough about him."

Ziva and Tony were silent for a moment, waiting for Kort to continue, before they realized that he was looking at them expectantly.

"And you think Gibbs now has the information you want," Ziva said flatly.

"He's been in their custody for days," Kort said smoothly. "That alone means he knows more about them than any other agent currently working for us. We can get you fairly close to the camp if you are willing to go in after him."

Kort continued to speak, gesturing to the photographs and almost doggedly spilling CIA secrets. Ziva narrowed her eyes. There was an oddness about Kort today that went beyond his suspicious willingness to help, but she couldn't quite put her thumb on it.

"We have a small base not far from the edge of Calera controlled land. We can drop you close to the border – that's about three days on foot from Camp Six – and then pick you up on your way out. The border of Calera land is the closest you can get to the camp by air before you risk getting shot down."

Kort paused and ran a hand over his bald head, rubbing the stubble. "You'll need a guide to and from the camp, which I can also provide," he muttered, "though you're not going to like it."

Tony subtly leaned forward on the bench and looked hard at the other man. Something was off about the other man. He was being way too helpful, of course, but that was because Kort wanted Gibbs to owe him, Tony guessed, and maybe because he wanted whatever Calera secrets Gibbs had become privy to in the last few days, though that bit was dodgy. How much of value could Gibbs possibly know? At best the boss was a prisoner locked up in a bunker somewhere, not sitting in on cartel strategy meetings.

But Kort wasn't responding to any of Tony's insults, and there was something different . . . he was almost subdued, maybe even ragged around the edges. Kort's weirdness bore thinking about, but he also had the information they needed. For the moment they'd just have to trust him.

Tony shuddered. "That's the part we're not going to like," he said. "Your guide. Right. Who is it? You?"

A teenager with a soccer ball tucked under his arm suddenly dropped onto the bench next to Kort. Tony glanced away from the stone faced CIA agent, surprised. He hadn't noticed the boy moving closer. "Get lost, kid," Tony said sharply, already going back to his study of the photos. "This is a private party."

The boy, he couldn't have been more than fourteen, pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt and grinned at Tony. His fine dark hair was shaggy, and a few strands stuck up at the back with static, glinting red in the afternoon sun.

The kid didn't move and Kort, sitting beside him, didn't say anything. Tony and Ziva looked up from the photos to glance between the two of them. The kid's eyes were pale, hard to read, and the smile was weirdly cold in the grinning young face.

That smile was strange. Not real. And the eyes . . . Tony tensed, his cop senses rearing up and alerting him to something off. Something wrong.

Trust Kort to set up a meeting in a park full of junkies. Tony and Ziva both eased hands toward their backup weapons. They'd left their service pistols at NCIS, since they were technically on leave.

The boy tracked the movement. Tony opened his mouth to tell him to beat it, again, but the kid spoke first. "You're Dinozzo," he said. The smile dropped from the kid's face as his eyes flicked to Ziva. He stared at her for a long moment. Really stared. "And David."

He pronounced it right. Da-veed.

"Dinozzo, David," Kort said grimly, "meet Gray. Your guide."


	8. Gray

**Chapter 8: Gray**

Ziva recovered first. "You can't be serious."

Kort just returned her stare. His face in the fading light was all planes of gray and white. Dark lines carved shadows around his mouth.

"We can't take a child into a war!"

"You need him," Kort said easily. "No one else on the outside knows this terrain. No one living," he amended. "He can guide you to and from the camp and handle Gibbs' extraction."

Tony shook his head sharply.

Kort's own gaze was unusually hard as it bore into Ziva, then Tony. "And there isn't going to be any _war_. You'll need to pull Gibbs out undetected. Gray will be a guide, not a combatant. He'll detach himself from your team at the first sign of detection. There are too many hostiles in the area to survive if they know you're there."

"Which is precisely why we're not taking – " Tony gestured in the kid's direction. All three agents threw a glance at him, but the boy was looking at the playground across the field now, seeming oblivious to the argument flowing around him.

Tony lowered his eyes to think. He ended up staring at the photos of the damn camp. "What about the outpost, the base you said you have down there," he asked, turning his attention back to Kort. "You said it's not far from the cartel's border. Personnel stationed there must know the area."

Kort shifted and finally, reluctantly spoke. "That base is run by a team of ex-Rangers and other Special Forces personnel who no longer exist. They're ghosts, you understand me?" He looked to Ziva, and she nodded. "Men stationed at the base can get you to the border and pick you up, but they would be useless as guides on Calera land. They rarely go into the area on foot and don't fly over it, either. We want Gibbs' intel if we can get it, which means I'm willing to help you. But if you want to use that base you'll do it our way. That means you go in with Gray."

A moment of silence and Kort moved on, the argument apparently settled in his mind. "The smaller your team is, the less chance you have of detection. I'd advise two agents, the ones among you with the most field experience."

"Well if we take _him_," Tony glared at the kid, "our team will definitely be _small_. Suppose mommy and daddy sign the consent form and we actually agree to this insane idea. What if Gibbs is injured when we make it to him? How are we supposed to protect him and your pint-size pal here on the hike back to the Calera border? We'd have two able bodies and two defenseless!"

Kort leaned forward, his usual sneering voice slow and especially ugly. "You're the ones who want to make an extraction from no-man's land, Dinozzo. The insanity is yours. You can leave Gibbs in that camp to rot for all I care. But if you go through with a rescue you will need him," Kort tilted his head toward the boy at his side. "You will protect him with your own lives or you will die down there." Kort sat back and shifted to a slightly less apocalyptic tone. "Anyway, _as I said_, Gray will be a guide only. He won't be involved in any use of force."

"He's going to extract Gibbs from the camp without force?" Ziva said. "Does he have a magic wand?"

Kort gave her a small sarcastic smile. "He can move through the camp undetected. That's all the magic he'll need."

Ziva turned her gaze to the boy, staring at him hard. He seemed to sense it and swung his attention back to the table to meet her eyes. "Why are you here?" she asked him seriously. "Are you being coerced?"

Kort cursed and turned sharply away. But, strangely, he didn't interrupt. Gray looked at her calmly, his face a blank slate. "No."

She waited for more, but he'd already turned away again. Ziva shook her head. "We cannot take a child on this mission. It would be illegal to involve him."

Kort chuckled bitterly. "How noble, David. Wherever did that come from? Something you picked up from Gibbs?"

Ziva stared at him with disgust. She longed to get up, to walk away. But the satellite images spread before her kept her still. If Kort had really found Gibbs . . . and he had a base nearby . . .

"And you always operate by the letter of the law, don't you, Officer David?" Kort pressed, voice hard. "No matter the consequences. Some things never change, hm?"

Ziva pulled back subtly, as if she'd been slapped. And then, instead of shoving his insults back down his throat where they belonged, she looked away.

Tony frowned, glancing between the two of them.

But she wasn't cowed for long. Ziva took a steadying breath and considered Kort with a flat stare. "It is Agent David now. And I follow the code set forth by US law."

"Fortunately for Gibbs," Kort said, "there is no law regarding the age of informants. And that is what Gray will be on this mission. A source of information. The fact that he will accompany you is immaterial. Of course an armed intrusion into a sovereign state with the intent to trespass on the property of one of its citizens actually _is_ illegal. But I understand that you like to pick and choose the laws you obey." Kort smiled. "Officer David."

"This is absurd," Ziva muttered.

"Furthermore," he drawled, "on foreign soil and in certain situations the CIA is authorized to act outside the normal parameters of the law. This is one such situation. 'Get out of jail free cards,' I think Gibbs calls them? He certainly isn't above using them himself when he finds it convenient." Kort cocked his head, mockingly thoughtful. "But then, if memory serves, neither are you, David."

Ziva said nothing, just continued to stare at the man across from her as if he were the scum of the earth.

Kort raised an eyebrow. "But by all means, if you would rather not accept my assistance in retrieving your precious leader," he shrugged. "You can take the fact that you now know where Gibbs is, and exactly what he will be experiencing in the weeks to come, as a . . . gift," he smiled slowly at them. "On the house."

Tony's own anger actually paled with a glimpse of Ziva's fury. Punching Kort was one thing. Tony could get behind that. Murdering him in the middle of the day, in a public park, was somewhat different. He made an effort to steer the conversation back to the practicalities of the situation.

"Your 'help' doesn't strike me as too helpful, Kort. You said it would be suicide if we're detected on Calera land, but there's no way we could get in and out of there without detection. Even if your boy here pulls off his magical extraction they're going to notice that Gibbs is missing."

Kort rolled his eyes yet again. "Yes, Dinozzo, good catch. Well done."

Tony had a sudden, fiercely vivid daydream involving Kort's eyes rolling into the back of his head and staying there.

"You need to get into and out of the _camp_ without detection," Kort carried blithely on.

_God he's snide why don't I just punch him in the face and get it over with worked so well last time Ziva will totally –_

"You should be able to evade patrols if you're already into the jungle by the time the alarm is raised. Tracking anything through that shit is damn difficult."

That last was said sincerely, and Tony's curiosity dragged him out of his bloody fantasy. Kort sounded like he was speaking from experience.

Gray reached up suddenly and clapped a hand on Kort's shoulder. "Well, this has been fun, Daddy. But I've got to get going." He looked at Tony, amused again. "You know how Mummy worries."

A strange look crossed Kort's face. Ziva assessed it curiously. Was that pain?

"Gray – " Kort began, but was cut off. The boy was already standing.

"Let me know what you decide," he said. He gave Tony the not-smile again, sending a chill down his spine, and nodded in Ziva's direction without actually looking at her. Then he turned and strolled away across the field, leaving the three agents sitting at the table.

"Look," Kort broke the silence with a sigh. He was still watching the kid, his voice far away and, for once, without a trace of sarcasm. "Whether or not you want to go through with this is your decision, but you better make it fast. Like I said, there's no point in going in if you don't reach him before the interrogator. You can keep the photos," he nodded to the table as he stood to leave, heading toward a car parked not too far from the NCIS sedan.

He paused just a few steps off and turned back to sneer at them.

"In the meantime keep your bloody little cyberduo out of our files!"

**x**

They sat at the table and watched Kort's car fade into the distance. Tony used a fingernail to pick at a peeling sliver of paint on the table top.

Since Gibbs wasn't around to be the bastard, Tony stepped up.

"What's he have on you, Ziva?"

"We should get back." She was still staring down the street Kort's car had traveled. "Abby and McGee may have something."

But she didn't move.

"Ziva."

"I don't want to use a child, Tony," she said. Her voice was brittle.

"I know."

They sat there for another minute, watching the end of a beautiful red sunset, feeling the weight of the unspoken settle around their shoulders.

_But if it's the only way . . ._

**x**

The drive back to NCIS was quiet, both agents turning every detail of what they'd just learned over in their minds. By the time they made it back to the Navy Yard night had fallen. Official business hours were over and the building was beginning to empty out.

They shut themselves in the lab, swore McGee and Abby to secrecy, and filled them in on their conversation with Kort. The cyberduo's research into the CIA's satellite imagery confirmed - or at least didn't contradict - what Kort told them about Gibbs' whereabouts.

After both teams revealed everything they knew quiet descended on the group.

"McGee?" Tony finally asked.

"I don't think we have any choice but to . . . trust Kort." The last few words came out slowly, like a tourist taking his best shot at a foreign language.

"Ziva?"

"I agree," Ziva said after a moment. The vulnerability she'd shown in the park was tucked away now, nowhere to be seen. "It is not ideal, but if Kort is right about where Gibbs is we need to get to him as soon as possible. And that means playing by Kort's rules. We have no other leads, we have no time, and we certainly do not have the CIA's resources in that region."

Tony shook his head. "If we end up walking into some elaborate trap set up by the CIA or some Colombian gang Gibbs will kill us. Assuming we aren't already dead."

"Yes," Ziva agreed. "True. But I do not see what Kort or the Calera cartel would gain by sending us into a trap – we have no information that Gibbs does not, so why would they bother to capture or kill us? I have never operated in Colombia or Mexico," she said. "Do any of you have significant connections there?"

The group shook their heads.

Abby shifted from foot to foot. "Um, even if there's no trap Gibbs is _definitely_ going to kill you for using a kid to find him."

Everyone nodded. That went without saying.

"Alright," Tony breathed finally. He felt a little lightheaded. All of the choices in front of him were unacceptable. They couldn't stay here and leave Gibbs to die. But how could they go?

Is this what Gibbs felt when he was making decisions like this?

Then again, Leroy Jethro Gibbs would probably be able to do all this rescue stuff on his own, without Kort or a weird cold kid, or even Ziva . . .

Well, Tony reminded himself, there came a time in every man's life when he just had to accept the painful truth that he wasn't going to be a professional ball player, movie star, ruler of his own planet, or Gibbs.

Tony would muddle on as best he could, and that included accepting help like a normal mortal.

"Alright," he said again. "Ziva and I will go to Colombia. Ziva, take a few minutes to make a sketch of the kid for Abby. Abby, try to figure out who he is. Hook up with Metro PD and check their juvenile records. Look for gang and drug related arrests first. After the sketch I want you to figure out a couple of GPS locators that will be easy to hide. Make an extra one for Gibbs. McGee, put together a file of whatever intel we'll need on this op – whatever you can find. Follow the Somalia outline, we'll read it on the plane. I'm going to call Kort." And Vance.

Kort hung up almost immediately to arrange the flight and called Tony back fifteen minutes later. The no-name Rangers at the no-name base would outfit the agents with gear. Kort would send the best intel he had on the Calera camp to McGee so that he could include it in the file he was preparing. Their flight – another cargo plane out of Pax River, this time to Bogota – left in 5 hours.

Kort flat out refused Tony's offer of a GPS locator for the kid, saying it would be too dangerous if disaster struck and Gray was caught with it. That was true enough. Crawling around in a place you weren't supposed to be, with a sophisticated locator you weren't supposed to have, was proof positive that you were up to something hinky, no matter where you were or what you were doing.

That didn't change the fact that he and Ziva would be carrying them. It wasn't like the two agents would blend in anyway.

Three hours later they were as ready as they could be in the time they had. Abby _injected_ them with tiny locators, totally unfazed by Tony's protests, then gathered him and Ziva into a hug and just about squeezed the life out of them. Before he pulled away Tony cupped her face in his hands and brushed away a few rogue tears, promising that he would bring Gibbs back – bring them all back.

After that they headed home to grab quick showers and clean clothes and, of course, give Ziva a chance to strap on her full arsenal. McGee drove them to the airport, swinging by Ziva's apartment first, then Tony's. Their third stop was to get the kid.

**x**

They picked Gray up at the same park where they'd met earlier that day. This time of night the field was dark and the streets were deserted and eerie. McGee pulled the car up into the murky light by the curb, idling between street lamps.

A moment later he emerged from the pitch black shadows of the trees. He was in worn black cargo pants and the same dark, long-sleeved hoodie he'd had on earlier. Tony thought he looked like a cross between an emo preppie and some precocious thug.

Gray slid into the backseat silently and slung a small dark book bag at his feet. McGee pulled the car away from the curb and began navigating the near empty streets to the Naval base, where their ride to Bogota was waiting.

Tony turned and studied the smooth, closed face beside him. Abby hadn't found any records connected to the kid, but she was still looking. No matter what she found Tony wanted to know more about Kort's little pet before traipsing into the jungle after him.

Time to push some buttons. "Thanks for coming along with us, Gray. We really appreciate it."

No reaction at all.

"Want some water, buddy?" Tony held out a bottle. "Or would you rather have a soda? We've got both."

The boy kept looking out the window, but Tony caught a thin smile from his profile. "No thanks."

"Alrighty. Here, hold this for me while I put the soda back, will ya?" Tony held the bottle out, right over the kid's lap, but Gray didn't move to take it.

"Rather not," he said, a little edge of amusement there.

In the front seat Ziva and McGee glanced at each other, eyebrows raised.

"No problem." Tony slowly put the drinks back in the cooler at his feet. "So. Gray, huh? That your first name or family name?"

Kid didn't say anything. Didn't even look his way.

"Or a nickname? Gray? Can't help but notice that you've got gray eyes, too. That's kind of a coincidence."

Nothing.

Tony laughed. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Okay, I'll stop digging." He was quiet for a good five seconds. "Hey, Kort's not really your dad, is he?"

Gray didn't turn from watching the streetlights slide by the window, but he did answer that one, sort of. With a question of his own.

"Why? Need another consent form signed?"

"Well, I don't know," Tony said lightly. He propped his elbow on the door next to him. "Depends on what your plans were for the week. Are you missing summer camp? I'd hate for you to miss camp. And I sure hope you're not ditching summer school. You'd need an extra note for that, right?"

Gray finally glanced over at him, long enough for Tony to see him roll his eyes. It was suspiciously Kort-like.

The agent cleared his throat, his voice more serious than it had been, eyes fixed on the shadowy face next to him. "So, Kort said no one else living knows the Calera terrain as well as you do. How'd that happen?"

Gray kept studying the world outside, apparently uninterested in Tony and his questions. "How did what happen?"

This was dangerous territory, Tony was well aware of that. The kid clearly spent time running around Calera land and had somehow gotten mixed up with the CIA. He had negligent parents at best. More likely . . .

"How did it happen that everyone else who knew the terrain is dead and you're alive," Tony pressed.

It was risky to deliberately piss off the kid, but it was also a reasonable thing to ask given where they were headed.

Gray finally turned to face him. "I think you'd better hope you never find out, Tony," he said mildly. "Don't you?" He looked politely inquisitive. After a beat the dead-cold eyes turned back to the window.

Tony leaned toward Ziva, sitting in the front seat. "Okay," he stage whispered. "Mission to Colombia Rule #1. First names from Little Smoky here are even worse than from Gibbs."

Ziva's eyes were closed and she looked asleep. But she responded just as Tony leaned back in his seat.

"Perhaps it would be best not to antagonize him, then."

Tony glanced once more at the kid before leaning back and shutting his eyes. About forty minutes to go before they reached Pax River. He heard Gibbs' voice in his ear, telling him to rest while he had the chance.


	9. Ghost Base

**Chapter 9: Ghost Base**

McGee pulled the Charger right up to the plane, an enormous black shadow crouched on the misty runway, and got out to shoulder-squeeze Ziva goodbye. Tony called Abby from the tarmac to check in on her Gray search.

"There's nothing, Tony. I searched Metro, nationally, internationally - the fact that he's so young narrows it down. I've already gone through every photo database I have access to and got nada. I'll have a better shot when I get his prints. You're sending them back with McGee?"

"Ah, no," Tony said. "He was on to that."

"On to it?"

"He wouldn't touch anything, Abs. Never even took his hands out of his pockets. He was on to it."

"Wow." That was impressive. The fingerprint trick usually worked.

"Maybe we can lift them from the car? The door handle?" Abby wondered.

"Don't think so, Abs. When he got out he used his sleeve. If there were any prints there in the first place, which I kinda doubt, he wiped them out."

"Huh. Well, he does hang out with Kort. I don't know, Tony – if there was ever a file on him in any of the image databases it's gone now. With fingerprints I might have had better luck, but with just a sketch . . ."

"Yeah," Tony sighed. Ziva's composite was extremely accurate, but it was a long shot to hope that the kid had a photo record in a government database. Even if he did have a juvie record Kort could have had it erased. "Thanks anyway, Abs. See you in a few days."

"Tony," Abby said sharply.

"Yeah?"

The whine of the plane's massive engines started to build in the background, but there was silence on the line.

He pressed the headpiece into his ear. "Abby?"

Maybe a sniffle. The casing of the cell phone creaked under Tony's hands.

Nothing sucked worse than being left behind. Waiting for the return - or just the news, if there would be no return. This was why Abby and Ducky got Nice Gibbs on a daily basis, and why Tony always made sure he was one of the ones to go. He didn't want to think about the strength it took to stay.

If he didn't talk fast the engines would drown him out. "We'll bring him back, Abby."

"And you too," she said quickly. "And Ziva."

His Schwarzenegger was way worse than his Connery, but he whipped it out anyway. "I'll be back."

She laughed through a stuffed up nose. It sounded like she was trying to make him feel better about his pathetic attempt to reassure her. "I'm holding you to that. Now go catch your flight, mister. Before they leave without you."

He shut the phone and waved to McGee. "Take Abby home tonight, Probie."

"You got it, Tony."

McGee stood by the car and watched as the rest of his team disappeared into the plane.

**x**

Tony secured himself loosely in the canvas straps next to Ziva, thinking sourly as he did so that he was spending way too much time lately on military flights. It might bring up warm and fuzzy Corps memories for Gibbs, but for Tony it was a not-so-happy reminder of his not-so-happy time in military school. Not that they'd flown around on military aircraft - just that everything at that school seemed designed for maximum discomfort.

Which brought him back to the boy sitting on the opposite side of the plane. Gray had gotten out of the car without a word and boarded first, ignoring the crew and tying himself in expertly once his bag was secured in the netting beside him. His eyes were closed and he looked relaxed, even though the plane was now rumbling like an earthquake. Was the kid _asleep?_

Tony shook his head. He had to give him points for cool.

Ziva leaned over to speak into his ear as the engines revved. "Anything from Abby?" she asked, nodding toward Gray.

Tony shook his head. Ziva's eyes narrowed as she leaned back into the bundle of cargo netting she'd arranged behind her, and he shifted over to speak directly into her ear. "What are you thinking?"

They were taxiing down the runway now, the engines roaring, and he could barely hear himself. The kid couldn't have listened in at this point if they'd been using bullhorns.

"It does not matter," Ziva said after a moment. "We need him."

"But? C'mon, Ziva."

She sighed. "But I recognize what he is. Do not tell me you do not."

He shrugged uncomfortably as the plane lifted into the air. Tony relied on the instincts he'd honed as a cop, which made him naturally suspicious of just about everyone he met. But he'd never developed the dark, paranoid insight that seemed to drive Gibbs and Ziva. And he hoped he never did.

Even if they were usually right. That pessimistic awareness made it nearly impossible for the two of them to really trust anyone, and he was pretty sure it wasn't worth it.

"His age means nothing, Tony." She looked at him seriously. "He is a killer. He - " She hesitated. "In Israel we would say he has blood in his eyes. He is a valuable asset yet Kort did not appear very worried about his safety, did you notice that? I think he will be able to protect himself," she said slowly, eyes troubled. "But he has no loyalty to us, and that means our lives are nothing to him. He is not a child as you understand them, Tony. You must not think of him like one."

She waited for Tony to nod.

"The enemies of Mossad recruited boys like that," she said, looking away. "And now we have done the same."

Ziva leaned down to her pack and pulled out a flashlight, beginning to read the file that McGee and Kort put together. She handed the pages to Tony as she finished them and was silent for the rest of the flight.

Tony, obviously, wasn't. They were just preparing to land in Bogota and he was complaining loudly about the lack of stewardesses on military flights when he first noticed Gray's eyes on him. The kid was _looking_ at him. It was weird.

He noticed it again on the runway in Bogota, standing next to a rusty old puddle jumper that looked older than Gibbs and barely big enough to lift the three of them off the ground. Tony chatted up the mechanic fueling the plane, mentioning that he'd once punched the guy who'd arranged the puddle jumper flight. He wondered aloud if this was his punishment.

If so, Tony thought it was excessive.

He turned around to scan the area for the missing pilot and locked eyes with the kid. Gray was looking at him. Again.

And then it happened again, in the ragged little town where the puddle jumper left them, as they waited for the Black Hawk that was flying out from the base to pick them up. Tony had been bemoaning the humidity to Ziva and offered, generously, to buy her a new bikini.

The kid kept _looking_ at him. Focusing on him completely when Tony was just going on like he always did, about stuff that didn't deserve any focus. The kid didn't say anything. Just looked, a creepy intensity in his gray eyes. It was like a Gibbs stare, but cold, and it set Tony's teeth on edge.

Finally the helicopter arrived and they climbed in for their last flight. The kid was just as nonchalant boarding the Black Hawk as he'd been in the cargo plane, though this time he nodded to the pilot.

They lifted off from the village in a swirl of dust and took off to the northwest, flying almost directly into the evening sun. The village fields fell away and the ground beneath them was swallowed up by an impenetrable green canopy of trees, broken only by an occasional lazy river. The jungle looked like a rolling green ocean stretching in every direction.

Tony knew the chopper was flying fast, but with no landmarks beneath them it was hard to tell that they were moving at all. He stared at the endless trees, wondering how the schemes of Paloma Reynosa had dragged him and Ziva out to this no-man's land. They'd taken Gibbs' wife and daughter from him twenty years ago. Now, if this op went to hell, Gibbs and the team he'd spent ten years putting together would be destroyed as well.

Tony glanced at Ziva, who was scanning the faceless canopy beneath them fiercely, and knew she shared his thoughts.

This had gone way too far. When and if they all got back to Washington they would seriously get down to the business of dealing with the Reynosa family.

Almost three hours passed before the pilot signaled that they would be landing soon. A minute later the trees beneath them suddenly fell away. The jungle had been cleared from the surrounding area for a few hundred yards in every direction. A sorry looking collection of thin, gunmetal gray buildings sat in the center of the field, a perimeter surrounding the structures cordoned off by barbed wire. Platforms closed in by sandbags sat at each corner, black barrels of fixed guns poking out through breaks in the bags.

As they circled in and touched down two figures in olive green t-shirts and black fatigue pants emerged from one of the buildings and approached, shielding their eyes and standing just outside the worst of the whirling dust. Tony, Ziva and the kid hopped out and the two men started forward again as the chopper's blades began to slow.

In the sudden quiet one of the men stepped close and looked the boy over. "Gray. Fuck me, it's really you."

Gray gave the man a very faint grin. A real one, it looked like. "Rodge," he said. "Didn't expect to see you. Pete," he looked to the second man, shifting the bag on his shoulder. "Been awhile."

"No kidding," Pete said seriously. "What are you doing here?"

Rodge stepped even closer to Gray. He was a huge black guy with military tats on both forearms, another covering most of a bulging bicep. Tony and Ziva watched, incredulous, as the man took the teen gently by the shoulders and stooped down to eye level. "Everything alright? You still hooked up with Shorty?"

Gray nodded, his face already back to blank slate. "Yeah, it's all good."

"Well then tell me again what the hell you're doing here? I thought they revoked your lifetime fun pass."

"Yeah." Gray stepped out of the almost embrace and the man's hands fell easily away. "Not staying long, just giving a tour." He tilted a head toward Tony and Ziva.

Night would fall soon, they were dusty and tired, and Tony was damn nervous. Their drop-off at the edge of Calera land was scheduled before daybreak the next morning.

Nervous usually meant hyper for Tony, and that meant a lot of talking. But he stood there silently, watching and waiting, somewhere between too exhausted and too incredibly curious to do much else.

Rodge and Pete looked the two agents over thoroughly and then turned back to Gray.

"Don't want to know, do I?" Rodge said.

"Nope."

"C'mon in, I'll brief you on the latest doings." The kid and Rodge walked toward the building, the older man talking easily.

Pete watched them go and waved a hand at Tony and Ziva. He had warm brown eyes, a big smile and a shaved head. "Come on," he said. "You can clean up and eat before we get you outfitted. Heard you need gear."

They stepped into the building, glancing curiously into doorways as they passed. There were several conference rooms filled with rough furniture and scruffy men, all gathered around tables spread with maps and spreadsheets and glowing laptops. One corner of the building was an airy hangar. A couple of mechanics had a mud-encrusted truck propped up, spotlights shining up into its guts. In another corner there was a makeshift gym, built entirely from what looked like two-by-fours and iron pipes salvaged from a construction site. A wiry guy in black shorts was sweating through a solitary workout.

They were shown to bunks and had a few minutes to grab showers in tepid water. Then Pete briefed them on the specifics of their departure the following morning.

Finally they were pointed toward the mess. Gray had disappeared with his Ranger buddy, but Ziva and Tony found him again at a table outside the kitchen. The kid had a huge plate of some kind of stew along with rice, beans, and plantains in front of him. A dish of banana pudding sat off to the side, in reserve. He was shoveling it in.

Rice, beans, bananas. Some slow-cooked mystery meat. It was a variation of the same meal they'd been offered at every stop, featuring yet more bananas served in one increasingly odd way or another. It was the nature of military food. Some supply clerk in DC probably bought ten tons of bananas last month instead of the one ton he meant to order, and now the cooks were working them into every conceivable dish from Bogota to Baghdad.

Ziva and Tony grabbed plates and filled them from pots on the big stove, then sat down side by side across from the kid.

As he settled at the table Tony grumbled about the repetitive cuisine and put voice to the hope that he wasn't going to turn into a banana before he got out of Colombia. And it happened again. Gray paused in the back-and-forth shovel motion of his fork and did that looking at him thing.

Tony, really on edge now, finally called him on it.

"What are you looking at, Smoky?" It was the aggressive, mocking tone he'd cultivated in the interrogation room. The one he used to deal with punks who thought they were tough.

Gray blinked. Tony and Ziva hadn't spoken to him since the ride through DC. Actually, Tony thought, Ziva hadn't spoken to him at all since that one question at the park.

"Why?" the kid asked lightly. "Making you nervous?"

It was almost a taunt. A completely normal, dipshitty, teenage testosterone challenge.

It was the least nerve-inducing thing the kid had said yet.

"No," Tony relaxed a little. "I just want to know why you keep looking at me like that. I think it'd be best to know these things before you take me into the jungle and have your way with me. You're not into cannibalism, are you? Cults? Ever seen _The Temple of Doom_?"

Gray gave him the look again, and maybe a little . . . grin. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, so it was hard to tell. Still, it was Tony's turn to blink.

"You're funny," Gray said. Then he picked up his tray and walked away.

What was . . . was the kid dicking him around? You're _funny?_

Ziva looked up from her banana pudding to watch him go. "You have noticed he carries a weapon?"

"Yeah," Tony said absently. "Small of the back, semi-automatic."

"You better hope he likes funny people," she said.

**x**

After dinner Pete led Ziva and Tony into a room full of equipment lockers. They were outfitted with a light collection of moisture wicking gear and a heavy assortment of guns and ammo.

"You've been in it before?" Pete asked.

Tony glanced at Ziva. "Sort of," he said. "There was more sand last time around."

Ziva smiled at him, then went back to adjusting the straps of the waterproof bags they'd been given.

The Ranger paused in selecting canteens and water purification tablets for them. "You've never been in the jungle?" He looked at Ziva. "You?"

Ziva shook her head. "I have carried out missions in many different environments, but never in the tropics. At least, not in the wilderness."

"Huh," Pete said. "Well, guess there aren't a lot of places as remote as our little corner of paradise, are there?" He dropped the canteens into their bags and turned toward a shelf of antibiotics.

Ziva sighed. "That is true. It is worrying that we will be so far from support."

Pete grunted. "No such thing as support on Calera land. Not unless you're one of them."

Ziva checked a clip of ammunition for the NCIS pistol she'd strapped to her back before they left the Navy Yard. "We have been told that our best strategy is simply to remain undetected."

Pete gave them a long look, then laughed. "Well, yeah. They know the terrain and they've got the firepower. We've done threat assessments for the area, you know? If you went in hot and were actually a threat the cartel would call up their allies. We estimate a force of 100,000 would be needed to secure the territory involved. Even then casualty rates would be astronomical. So," Pete frowned, still shuffling boxes of pills. "Unless a lot more of you are coming I'd say going in under the radar is your best bet."

Tony and Ziva nodded. They'd read the same cheerful assessments in the files McGee put together for them.

"More used to operating in urban environments myself," Tony said. "Don't like to get too far from the nearest donut shop."

The Ranger grinned. "Well, if you want donuts where you're going you'll have to hump them in. Guess a lot of guys these days are more used to urban contact than anything else." He glanced curiously at Ziva. "Ladies too, of course."

She nodded absently and stepped toward the racks of weapons lining one wall, looking them over like a kid surveying a candy store. "We may select from these?" she asked.

Pete nodded, and she perused the choices for a minute before removing a stubby assault rifle and its grenade launcher attachment. She handed it to Tony. "Check to see if this will fit into your pack," she murmured, already back at the racks. She selected a rifle and scope for herself, then pounds of ammo for both of them.

The mini assault rifle just wedged into his bag at a slant. Most of the rest of the room went to its clips. Several pairs of socks followed. A top compartment was stuffed full of power bars, water purification tablets, and a very thin roll of toilet paper.

Tony sank down on a bench, watching as Pete picked through bare bones First Aid kits.

"I know I can handle the wilderness bit. Or unfriendlies," Tony said. "I've been up against bad guys with big guns and I can suck up a few days in the trees. The two of them together, though. That's new." He frowned and shook his head, staring off into space. "Forget the evil overlord and his army. McGee gave us a list of the poisonous animals crawling around in those trees. Looked like the casting call for Halloween 6."

Pete grinned again at Tony's light tone before looking at them both intently. "You can get into trouble real easy in there. All sorts of trouble, believe me. Just get in, do your business, and get out as fast as possible. Don't think about anything else," he said. Then he nodded seriously to Tony. "And you're right. Best steer clear of the wildlife."

After a moment's consideration he dropped something that looked like antivenin into a kit.

"That sounds like good advice," Ziva smiled. "Thank you for your help." She stood and hefted her black bag over her shoulder.

Tony stood too. "Any other words of wisdom?"

Pete paused in rummaging through a huge sack of powdered gatorade packets. It looked like he was giving them all the lemon-limes. He examined one, fingering the foil edge as if looking for a tear. "What's your connection to Gray?"

Ziva and Tony glanced at each other. "We were only put into contact with him about twenty-four hours ago," Ziva said. "He is . . a friend of an associate."

The Ranger tossed one last pack of lemon-lime powder into Tony's bag. "And that associate would be Kort, huh?" Pete shook his head. "Man, that guy gets around."

"Sure does," Tony said, lifting his own pack. He followed Pete and Ziva out of the locker room and back toward their bunks.

Pete left them at the door to their room. "Get some sleep. I'll be around to wake you at 0330."

Tony glanced into the room. There were four empty bunks with thin gray blankets arranged against the walls and a small sink bolted into the corner. He looked over the tops of the beds and frowned. His and Ziva's bags were where they'd left them earlier, but Gray's stuff hadn't appeared. He turned quickly back to Pete.

"Hey," he called down the corridor.

The Ranger paused and looked back at him.

"Kid's not staying here?"

Pete huffed, brown eyes laughing. "Gray gets a VIP room. 'Night," he nodded, and disappeared around the corner.

They didn't bother to turn the light on, just climbed into their bunks by the light of the hall. Tony reached out to shut the door from his bed, throwing the room into pitch black.

"Goodnight, Z," he said into the dark.

"Layla tov, Tony."

Tony smiled. She'd taught him that on their first undercover op, years ago.

He didn't think he would be able to sleep, but knew that he needed to try. Who could tell when he would have another chance? Tomorrow they walked into the unknown.

The situation pressed into his mind like a physical weight. Tony was the leader of the team now. The decision to come here had been his call. Ziva's life, Gibbs life, and now the kid's life were all his responsibility.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his mind, but it had other ideas. He flashed almost immediately back to that last conversation with Vance. Tony had called him at home and very briefly, very vaguely filled him in on the plan, all in a roundabout way, of course. The director needed to maintain deniability.

There'd been a moment of silence on the line and Tony'd felt a rush of panic, wondering if Vance would try to stop them from going. But when he spoke the director's words were as neutral as his voice. All he'd said was, "Are you sure about this, Agent Dinozzo?"

_Are you sure you're willing to die for this? To be responsible for Ziva's death? Do you even think you have a chance?_

Tony honestly didn't know the answers to those questions. He only knew that he couldn't sit back and allow Gibbs to disappear forever. If they didn't go for Gibbs now they would never hear of him again. His body would never be found. They would never even know how he died. It would haunt them all.

Tony didn't really know if they had a chance or if this was a suicide mission. But he knew they had to try. So he'd told the director he was sure.

"Alright," Vance said simply. "We'll be pulling for you. Good luck."

A thousand miles away, lying under the scratchy gray blanket, the words echoed in his mind. The stress of the last week felt like it was pressing him into the mattress. His exhaustion reached up then and sucked him down into the black, and he knew no more.


	10. In It

**Chapter 10: In It**

They woke and sat up instantly when the door opened. Pete entered the room and set a tray on one of the empty beds. There were two cups of coffee, eggs, bacon, and thick slices of bread with chunks of tomatoes and some kind of cheese melted on top.

"0330," he said, and walked out.

They ignored nervous stomachs to gulp down the food. Tony got up and carried his bag to the shower room, leaving Ziva to get dressed in the dorm. He rinsed off and slathered himself with the industrial strength bug repellant that Abby gave them, then dressed in the gray and black fatigues and black long sleeve t-shirt that Pete selected the night before. He pulled on thick socks and laced up his own boots from home. Finally he used the toilet, watching it flush and wondering if this was the last time he was ever going to see plumbing.

When Tony walked back to their room Ziva was dressed and pulling back her hair into a ponytail. She'd straightened the bunks and folded the t-shirt and pants she'd been wearing since they left DC, placing them at the foot of the bed she'd slept in. Her wallet and phone were on top.

Tony added his personal things to the pile while she jogged to the head. They wouldn't carry anything that could be used to identify them, but he removed the compass clipped to his key chain and slipped it into a pocket.

Ziva returned in under two minutes, slinging the rifle she'd selected the night before securely over her shoulders before adding the pack.

"Ready?" Tony asked.

She nodded.

They hesitated, looking at each other, and Tony grinned.

"We've got to move fast," he prompted.

Ziva smiled a little. "And quietly."

She looked at him expectantly, the new ritual already calming their nerves.

"No authority, no jurisdiction. No time."

Her smile got big as she nodded firmly. "We don't come back without Gibbs."

"Agreed."

They turned and walked out the door to the helicopter waiting for them. A team of just two, but as solid as any team could be.

It was 3:50 when they stepped out of the building. The night was black except for the stars and a thin moon hanging on the horizon. The vague, spiky outline of the Black Hawk was just visible under the faint light.

The night air at this altitude was cool and Ziva shivered a little. She couldn't help but tip back her head and admire the sky. The stars were breathtaking, reminding her of training missions that took her into the desert when she was young, when her team slept in the open, far from the lights of cities. She had rarely seen them so bright.

Tony turned toward a dark figure leaning against the outside wall of the building. It was Rodge. His face was set into hard shadowed lines and his eyes were black pits. He didn't move to acknowledge them.

Rodge didn't like them, that was clear enough, and Tony figured he knew why. These guys had some kind of connection to Gray, and using a kid to do what they were about to do - well, Tony didn't like it either.

Normally he didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought of him on the job, as long as the job got done. And it had been clear from the beginning that there would be no rescue for them from this base if something went wrong – they were totally on their own once they entered Calera land.

Still, they would rely on the base to pick them up when they made it out with Gibbs, assuming everything went according to plan. Even if these people weren't exactly on their team, they were the closest thing to it this side of DC. It would be nice if the men here didn't actively hate their guts.

"You know, we asked if there was anyone here who could guide us to the camp, even drop us nearby," Tony said. He kept his eyes on the helicopter. "We were told that we had to take the kid with us."

Rodge didn't move to look at him, but he did respond, after a moment. "Gray makes his own decisions." He paused, and added quietly, "Anyway, I'm not a hypocrite."

That hung in the air for a moment before Rodge pushed off the wall and walked toward the helicopter. "They'll be out in a minute," he said as he passed them.

Tony realized only when the man climbed into the cockpit that Rodge would be their pilot.

Just as the landing lights came on and the blades started to move the door to the building behind them opened and Pete and Gray stepped out. The kid carried the same small pack over his shoulders that he brought with him from Washington. The hoodie had been replaced by a dark long-sleeved t-shirt.

There was something stubby poking up over his shoulder . . . Tony's blood ran cold as he recognized the shape. It was the short barrel of an assault rifle. He recognized it as a lightweight German model – he hadn't gone undercover against an arms dealer for nothing – one with a hollow stock that could fold in. It was just short enough to fit comfortably against Gray's narrow back.

The boy and Pete moved toward the chopper immediately and Tony and Ziva fell in behind them. Ziva caught his eyes for a moment, and the look they shared was bleak.

This didn't feel right. Wasn't right. But there was no going back now.

Gray hopped into the rear while Pete waited by the door to see Ziva and then Tony secured.

The Ranger put a hand on Tony's arm as he was about to get in, leaning in close as the blades began to beat in earnest over their heads.

"Still want my advice?" he shouted into the agent's ear, then pulled back to look into Tony's eyes. His own were bright in the white glow cast by the helicopter's taillight. Tony nodded, startled, and Pete leaned in again.

"Stay close to Gray," he said. The roar of the engine almost swallowed the words.

Pete pulled back and looked hard at Tony again as the blades reached their rhythm above them and drowned out the possibility of speech.

But the other man's gaze wasn't really warm anymore, and the message in them was clear. _Don't come back without him._

Tony met the eyes and nodded, then climbed into the chopper to sit next to Ziva. Pete moved into the copilot's seat and seconds later they were airborne.

Tony didn't know how long they sat there, enveloped in the noise of the helicopter, the whole world a roaring shadow. The jungle below them was a seamless black, the faint green glow of the instrument panels the only light in the cabin. At some point Gray leaned over and tapped his foot to get his attention. He did the same to Ziva and held up a pair of night vision goggles. The agents turned to dig their own night gear out of their bags.

A minute later the helicopter lurched oddly, throwing Tony's stomach up into his throat. He looked out the door through his goggles and wished he hadn't as the ground swooped up at him through the eerie green light. They were closing in on an abandoned field, moving way too fast for comfort.

The agents tensed. This location was along one of the routes frequently traveled by the choppers moving in and out of the base, so flying through the area shouldn't raise any alarms. But touching down was out of the ordinary. The drop would be dark and fast.

Gray unhooked his harness and the agents followed suit. He moved by Tony to crouch at the door just before they rocked to the ground. The boy was out the door in an instant and running, a dark streak through Tony's goggles. Ziva slipped out and ran after him, and Tony after her, too quick to think about it. The air around him swirled with dust. He ran to escape it, to keep his eyes on Ziva's green-black form, heading for a line of trees at the edge of the field.

Behind him the chopper lifted away and faded into the background, disappearing altogether as they closed in on the trees.

Tony could suddenly hear again. His boots hitting the ground, the whisper of tall grass as it crunched beneath his feet, and his own harsh breath became unbelievably loud. Gray waited for them for a moment, crouched in the brush at the edge of the field. As soon as Tony reached them the boy stood and was moving again, not running now but trotting steadily, quick and silent through the trees. Tony and Ziva followed, quiet and swift as they could be, putting as much distance between themselves and their noisy arrival as possible.

Just yards in from the field the jungle became almost totally black, even with night vision, the tree canopy shutting out the night sky and any source of light. Gray skirted that line, avoiding the total exposure of the fields but taking advantage of the light they offered, sticking mostly to the concealing border of the trees. Occasionally they would slow and move cautiously through almost pitch black, and Tony realized that they were hopping from field to field, never moving into true wilderness.

The first strange minutes faded into the first hour. Tony thought about nothing but keeping Ziva in sight, keeping quiet, staying alert to movement in his peripheral vision.

There was a lot of it. Nocturnal animals and freaky noises, too, keeping him on edge. The occasional high shrieks were the worst. Tony was sure that whatever it was, the echoing shrieker was horribly carnivorous.

Little things constantly rustled at their feet, scurrying out of their path. Wings thrummed against the air and leaves rustled as birds broke through the canopy above them – at least, Tony assumed they were birds. And always there was the high soft whine of bugs.

Ahead of him Ziva stopped and crouched. Tony came up behind her left shoulder, halting about ten feet back. Gibbs had taught them not to crowd in close, and now it was engrained. Twenty feet out Gray's thin outline sat motionless. The boy shifted, absolutely silent, and looked back at them. He held out a hand, palm flat and up. _Stay._

The two agents nodded slightly and the boy turned and vanished into the night. Tony held his breath, listening. Gray reappeared almost instantly, crooking a finger. _Come._ He turned and headed into the trees at a slightly different angle than they traveled before. Tony wondered what exactly they were skirting around.

Gradually they wound deeper and deeper into the trees, leaving the fields behind. The calls of birds became more frequent and, incredibly, louder. Tony crouched when Ziva did and saw her reach up to remove her goggles. He did the same and realized that the night had faded into a deep blue dawn. He stuffed the goggles into the pack and they were moving again.

The light beneath the trees shifted from a shadowy gray-blue to pale green as morning began in earnest. Gray moved swiftly and confidently through the trees, almost at a trot. He wasn't looking around, wasn't navigating by any landmarks that Tony could see, but apparently followed a route that made sense to him. Tree after tree, mile after mile.

Occasionally Tony glanced at his compass to get a sense of their direction. They moved south at first, then slowly veered southwest. The ground was lumpy but relatively easy to move through, the trees too tall and thick to allow for much undergrowth.

As the world around them brightened and became easier to navigate they started to climb uphill through rougher terrain. They had discussed this the night before with Pete. Rough terrain meant fewer people, no vehicles, less chance that they would stumble across anyone else. Pete had warned them that Gray would stick to rough ground as much as possible, and even inspected their boots before making sure they had plenty of moleskin to stick over blisters.

This high up the heat wasn't too bad, but Tony had started to sweat the moment he hopped out of the helicopter, and by midday he was pretty much drenched in his own stink. The sun was just past its high point and the air felt muggy and warm when Ziva pulled up in front of Tony once again. Gray had stopped.

They watched as the kid sat, leaning against a tree, and dug through his pack. The spot was unusually sheltered, surrounded not only by trees but also by low shrubs and a lot of grassy undergrowth. It took a few seconds for it to click - after eight hours of constant movement, they were taking a break.

Gray didn't look up at them as Tony and Ziva settled in beside him. The kid pulled out a packet of gatorade and his canteen, ripping open the packet and dumping the powder in. It was orange, Tony noticed – the best flavor, of course. Apparently only the VIP guests at Ghost Base got it.

Gray looked up at them as he screwed shut the canteen and shook it lightly. His eyes locked onto Tony's and he slowly extended an arm, holding out the empty foil.

"Want it?" he mocked. Here in the yellow light of the forest his eyes were luminous, the palest green-gray.

Of course he'd been named for them.

Tony wanted more than ever to know his real name, but collecting fingerprint evidence wasn't exactly high on his list of priorities at the moment.

He grinned at the kid, acknowledging his earlier deceit – well, attempted deceit. "I'll take a raincheck."

Ziva pulled back the wrapper on a power bar and Tony did the same. Gray shoved the empty packet into his pack, took a long swig from his canteen, and studied the two agents as they gulped water and calories.

Tony had just caught the kid at it when Gray stood up. "Taking a leak," he said before they could follow, and disappeared into the bushes a few yards away. He was back a minute later and Ziva and Tony took their own turns, one at a time.

Gray watched them both as they walked away, and it finally occurred to Tony that he was checking on their status.

When Tony returned their guide stood again without a word and continued up the side of the hill, moving just as fast as he had before.

* * *

><p><em><strong>an**__: Plenty of flagrant line stealing going on in this chapter, including . . ._

_**Tony**__: Alright. We've got to move fast._

_**Ziva**__: And quietly._

_**Tony**__: No authority, no jurisdiction, no time._

_**Ziva**__: We do not get back on this plane without Gibbs._

_**Tony**__: Agreed._

From _NCIS: Rule Fifty-One_


	11. Watch

**Chapter 11: Watch**

Hours later, as the sun set right into Tony's eyes, Gray jerked to a halt and held up a fist. The agents trailing him stopped instantly.

A few seconds passed in stillness. And then the kid was retreating back up the hill he'd just been leading them down, moving fast and motioning for them to move as well. The gesture was tight – controlled panic.

Ziva set her feet firmly into the side of the hill as she climbed back up, hands on the ground and body crouched low to keep from slipping with each step. They'd been scrambling up the slope for maybe ten seconds before Tony could hear it. A faint low noise stood out from the rustling leaves and weird bird calls. His heart began to pound as he recognized a motor.

Gray was fast, already farther up than the agents, hand waving hurriedly. _Back!_ The rumble was a little louder, but sounded far off when he suddenly dropped to the ground and was still. Ziva and Tony followed him down, pulling out the pistols at their backs as they fell.

The engine swelled almost immediately and the top of a truck appeared below them, rumbling through the little ravine they'd been about to enter.

Tony forced himself to breath slowly, through his nose, calm and controlled and whisper quiet.

He could just see a thick black antenna, jerking as the wheels rolled over uneven ground, and a high canvas top stretched over a metal frame. It was the olive green canopy of a troop truck. Whoever was in it couldn't see Gray or the agents – they'd retreated just far enough up the hill. The three of them lay motionless as the vehicle passed, lurching slowly over the rough track and gradually fading away.

Gray didn't move even as a weird silence dropped back down around them. The birds had retreated as well, and everything was still as it hadn't been since that morning, when the helicopter retreated and left them in that first field.

Tony strained to listen, to hear whatever the kid heard. He stiffened as a low rustle floated up to them. A moment later there was a faint voice, calling out something. A short reply. The rustling movement faded, following the truck, until there was nothing but the natural sounds of the jungle swelling around them again.

Gray lay still for several more minutes, then flowed silent, like a living shadow, into a crouch. He didn't look back as he held up his palm again to Ziva and Tony, telling them to stay where they were. He moved slowly, impossibly quiet, along the hillside – not heading down into the ravine now, but parallel to it.

The agents tracked him with their eyes until they couldn't see him anymore.

Tony swept the brush surrounding him, trying to penetrate the green, and listened hard for sounds that didn't belong. His palms were damp and the butt of his gun felt perilously slick in his hands. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and along his back as he held absolutely, resolutely motionless. There was movement in the dirt right under his nose. He glanced down to see several tiny, blood red spiders crawling up his arms. He looked back into the trees, searching for movement on a more human scale and hoping nothing as small as those spiders could be seriously poisonous.

An eternity later there was a shift in the trees below them. Gray emerged from the undergrowth and waved them forward. He must have zig-zagged down into the little valley and cleared the path back up to them. They finally stood to follow him, muscles stiff with nerves, senses still jangling and sharp with adrenline.

Ziva met his eyes and nodded. That was close, but they'd survived it. And now they knew, a little better at least, what was hunting them – and how it would be avoided.

Shortly after that they crested a hill and Tony caught a glint of something through the trees. It was water, catching the last rays of the sun. He thought back to the satellite photo Kort had given them and remembered the twisting waterways that dissected the jungle.

They turned and began to walk along the side of the hill, following the water's route. After about a mile Gray motioned at them to wait. Then he began picking his way through the trees, heading down to the riverbank.

The water was brown and moving more rapidly here than anywhere else along the mile they had followed it. It was also narrower than it had been, maybe forty yards across. Tony and Ziva crouched to rest, scanning the trees around them for movement and keeping an eye on Gray.

He moved slowly to the edge of the tree line and sat motionless for several minutes. It was twilight now, and difficult to see him in the failing light. The boy stepped beyond the trees and to the shore of the river at a glacial pace, turning and scanning the shadows and the water before retreating back into the trees just as slowly.

When he finally motioned for Tony and Ziva to join him they could just make out the movement through the lengthening shadows. They scrambled cautiously down to meet him and stopped, as he had, in the shelter of the trees closest to the shore.

The kid was pulling up his socks and tucking the legs of his pants securely into the tops of his boots. Then he stuffed his t-shirt into his pants and cinched the belt tightly closed, locking the shirt in place. He looked up to catch the agents staring at him. And grinned.

"Leeches," he mouthed.

Tony looked away with a grimace.

The dark expanse of water looked incredibly exposed. It was certainly an easy place for a patrol to spot them, even in the fading light. And now Tony had confirmation that there were disgusting things lurking in there. Somehow he was sure that leeches weren't the only creatures preying on anyone stupid enough to venture into that water.

Tony was suddenly glad they hadn't spent much time prepping for this op. Sometimes it was just better not to know. Apparently they had to cross that river to get to Gibbs. He'd rather not have a real clear picture of whatever might come along and chew off his leg while he was at it.

Gray leaned toward them.

"Five minute intervals, one at a time," he said, his voice a barely-there whisper. "You hear anything from the other side . . ." he turned away, "don't cross."

Then he was moving into the water. He walked slowly, smoothly, and in the fading light and dark river soon looked like just another shadow.

Gray was a couple inches shorter than Ziva and even more slender. The agents watched as the water came up to his chest and held there through the slight rapids moving in the center of the river. Then it was waist deep, then to his knees. A moment later he disappeared into the brush on the far side. They listened hard and stared at the opposite shore, but there was no sound beyond the softly moving water and the ever present buzz of insects.

Ziva counted five minutes and followed, slipping soundlessly into the water. Tony held his breath as he watched her make her way across, though by the time she was at the halfway point he'd mostly lost her in the shadows.

He counted the five minutes and moved forward. The water was warm, and soon pulled at his legs with surprising force. The kid must have just held steady in it. Tony walked as quickly as he could without making noise, the open sky above him disconcerting after a day spent under the canopy of the jungle. He stepped lightly, constantly shifting his weight to keep his feet from getting sucked too far into the mud. Then he was moving up the far shore, out of the water and into the low brush, and finally beyond it, into the trees.

Ziva whispered to him and he found the two of them a few yards to his right. Tony paused to fish his night vision goggles out of his pack and to chug the last of the gatorade in his canteen.

Then they were moving again.

An hour later Tony's lower half had gone from sopping wet to merely damp. That didn't feel much different than the rest of him – he hadn't been truly dry since he'd started sweating that morning. They'd moved parallel to the river for several miles, using the little moonlight filtering through the trees along the shore to navigate. Then they came to a smaller branch of water and started to follow that. Tony checked his compass. They were moving west again.

Finally Gray paused a few feet from a downed tree and abruptly sat down. A break in the canopy allowed a little more light here and the night vision was almost uncomfortably bright. All three lifted their goggles to test their eyes. The sliver of moon was just enough to see by. The agents sank down gratefully to rest, automatically putting their backs together to keep an eye on their surroundings.

Tony's legs had ached earlier, but he was well beyond that now. His feet throbbed and his shoulders stung from the weight of the pack. The muscles in his thighs were iron. He felt pretty much like he had after the meanest of his college ball practices, when he would puke and then go home to collapse for twelve hours.

He resolutely ignored it. His body would only feel worse if he let himself think about it, and he knew the night was far from over. They wouldn't really rest until they made it back to the base - if they made it back.

Gray silently dug out several power bars and practically swallowed them whole. Tony's stomach had felt like a ravenous pit bull was clawing around in it for hours. He pulled out three bars and chewed them all at once, looking around. They were about ten feet from the water, just beyond the swampy growth that clogged the shore.

He was only halfway through his dinner when there was a . . . sliding noise, almost directly underneath him. He gagged and jerked back as he glimpsed something moving through the shadows under the fallen tree, about a foot from his knee. He stared, frozen, as a dark scaled head slithered through a patch of moonlight.

It was a snake. A really big snake, as thick around as Tony's bicep. He edged slowly back, nudging Ziva on the way. She turned and he could tell when she saw it. She breathed in quickly and joined him in shifting back, her eyes wide.

"Gray!" Tony hissed. It was heading right toward the kid.

Gray glanced from the frozen agents to the snake as it practically brushed past him.

"Harmless," he said offhandedly, and tipped back his canteen to drain it. Then he climbed to his feet and stepped over the log next to him, snake and all.

Ziva and Tony tracked both the boy and the snake as they moved off, controlling their breathing carefully, already halfway to standing. Definitely ready to move again.

But Gray shook his head. "Back in a second," he muttered, and disappeared into the trees.

Tony watched him go, then scanned the shadowy ground around him carefully before sinking back down, feeling about as jumpy as he ever had in his life.

"That kid is . . ." he trailed off.

"I agree," Ziva said firmly.

When Gray returned they crossed the smaller river, repeating the same process as before. As Tony reached the other side and crept into the trees without incident Gray took out his canteen and dropped in a purifying tablet. "Water's cleaner here than it will be for awhile," he said as he passed.

They filled their canteens one at a time, fitting the interiors with filters to keep the most disgusting bits of river muck out. The water tasted foul, and Ziva determinedly didn't think about whatever was flowing into the lip of her canteen. The agents popped more of the antibiotics they'd begun at the camp, hopefully killing anything really dangerous, or at least holding back debilitating illness until they were out of the jungle.

After the second river they began to climb in earnest, sticking to ridges that let some of the moon trickle in and light their way. The night was again teeming with insects, buzzing around their faces and flying up Tony's nose. Big flapping wings broke through the leaves above them, scurrying sounds darted through the undergrowth at their feet. Sometimes there were odd eyes staring at them out of the dark, glinting green in the night vision.

Tony firmly and gratefully focused on the familiar threat of bad people with guns, and somehow managed not to think too much about whatever natural dangers surrounded them.

They were moving even faster than they had earlier. The noise they made was covered by the relatively noisy nightlife of the jungle and, it seemed, they were entering rougher terrain and ever more remote stretches of land.

It had been dark for several hours when Gray paused at a sort of level depression in a hillside. He signaled for Ziva and Tony to stay where they were and walked into the trees surrounding them, looking around in a way that he hadn't before.

When he came back a few minutes later he had a bundle of sticks under one arm. The agents watched as he drove four of them easily into the soft ground, then knelt in the middle and removed his pack. He unclipped a thin gray roll from the bottom and shook it out – mosquito netting. The gauzy net was draped simply over the stakes in the ground, then weighed on three sides by the extra sticks.

Gray sat to remove his socks and boots. He wrung out the socks, draped them over two extra stakes, and crawled under the net in his bare feet. The stubby rifle never left his shoulders.

He glanced over at the agents watching him as he dragged his pack into position under his head.

"You're gonna wanna sleep under the net," he said, before slinging the rifle forward and laying down next to it. "Two hour watch." His voice was hoarse with exhaustion and the words almost slurred together. They watched as he tucked his arms and legs into his body, out of the night chill, and sank into sleep.

Tony glanced at Ziva, but she beat him to it. "I will take the first watch," she said. "I prefer it. Just give me a moment in the bushes . . ."

When Ziva returned Tony took off his boots, grimacing as he peeled the socks from his feet and draped them over sticks like Gray had. Then he crawled into the tent with his pack and settled down, watching as Ziva sat just up the hill from the net and began scanning the area through her night vision scope. He removed the pistol from the harness under his shirt and laid it by his head just before he closed his eyes.

A little over two hours later Ziva's hand on his shoulder woke him. He crawled out of the net, dragging his pack after him and groaning faintly. She handed him her rifle, waiting until he slung it over his shoulder to press two tablets into his free hand. He peered at the pills in the moonlight and, slumping with relief, pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"I love you," he whispered sincerely. She'd brought grunt candy, and he swallowed it gratefully.

Tony pulled on dry socks and his boots and checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning. He stood for the first half hour, turning in slow circles and checking the trees through the scope before he could trust himself to sit down. He switched off sitting and standing every fifteen minutes for two and a half long hours, until movement beneath him caught his eye. Gray was sitting up.

Tony glanced at his watch - it was 0430. After a moment the kid picked up the stick holding down the netting next to him and rolled out of the thin shelter, dragging his gun out after him. He stepped into the trees and reappeared a minute later, moving to sit a few yards from Tony.

"Get some sleep," he said.

"You sure?" Tony looked him over carefully. He hadn't had any intention of waking Gray to take a shift. But the kid nodded, already scanning the trees. He looked alert. More alert than Tony felt, if he was honest with himself.

Tony wanted to say something then. A lot of things. He wanted to point out the obvious - that it was Tony's family they were going after, not the kid's. That Gray should sleep.

He wanted to protest, to yell that the kid shouldn't be here at all, and to ask why he was in the same breath. He wanted to insist that Gray wake him and Ziva if anything went wrong. Not to use that ugly short rifle if it came to it, not for them.

If anything happened, he wanted Gray to run.

But he was tired, his mind cloudy. And every last molecule of energy in him was geared toward Gibbs. Finding Gibbs, getting them all out of here safe. There wasn't an atom left over for anything else.

There was no sense in both of them being up. Tony dragged himself to his feet and crawled back under the net. He remembered thinking that the bare ground shouldn't feel so soft, so incredibly comfortable. And then he was gone.


	12. Cruelty, Or

**Chapter 12: Cruelty, Or . . .**

Tony and Ziva jerked up as the netting over their heads was whisked away. Gray silently laid the net out on the dewy ground beside them to roll it up.

The world around them was gray instead of dark now, a hint of red touching the sky to the east.

They staggered to their feet, took turns in the bushes, ate more power bars and drained the last of their gatorade water. They smeared themselves with bug repellant and Ziva and Tony both applied moleskin to raw heels and various sore spots on their feet. Finally they watched, incredulous, as Gray produced a little bottle of Scope and a collapsable toothbrush from the top of his bag.

He noticed them staring and looked at his toothbrush, confused, before his eyes turned back to them. He held up the little red brush. "Think Pete put them in with your First Aid."

They dug through their packs and found them there, along with tiny tubes of toothpaste. Gray held out what was clearly his personal bottle of mouthwash and they took it gratefully, using paltry sips to rinse the taste of gatorade and paste from their mouths.

Finally the kid pulled up the stakes he'd used to hang the net and scattered them into the trees. And they were moving again.

The second day was worse than the first. The terrain was rougher, the trees closer together and harder to get through, the hills constant and steep. They had to retreat and hide from four motorized patrols, one of them with a cadre of soldiers following that passed within feet of them.

A small plane flew over them at midday, circling so close and low the tree canopy above them was torn apart. They pressed themselves into a stand of thick trees and were still, helpless as rabbits hiding from wolves. Ziva closed her eyes and hid her face in her arm as sharp bits of debris hit her, leaves and twigs and clumps of dirt. It went on and on, and she fingered her gun, wondering if whoever was in that plane had seen them.

She found herself praying to the vague god that always appeared to her in a crisis, when all she could do was hang on and wait for her fate to find its way to her. Hope and fear hurled themselves at some primal altar in her mind, and begged of their own accord. _Please_, they whispered._ Please not Tony. And Gibbs too. Please not a child._

The plane passed over them once more, banked south, and faded away.

Gray moved swiftly. And, it was painfully obvious, more quietly than the agents following him. Tony figured that was how he knew the patrols were coming - the kid heard them first because his own movements were so silent. He always had them retreating back into hiding crucial seconds before either Tony or Ziva could hear the motors or men approaching.

Several times over the course of the day Gray slowed his pace for no reason that the agents could discern. Then the boy would begin signaling for them to move quietly, to be quieter, to finally stop. He would leave them in something of a sheltered spot and gesture to wait before melting away into the trees.

Half an hour, forty-five minutes, once an hour passed before he reappeared from another direction and beckoned them to creep after him again. They would move slowly, Ziva and Tony doing their best to be quiet, until the unknown danger faded and Gray's speed picked up again.

In those stretches Ziva slung her rifle forward and gripped it firmly. Tony took his pistol out of the holster at his back, his heart beating louder in his ears than the whispering rasp of the dead plant matter under his feet.

They were used to danger on the job, but this was beyond that. The threats they faced as agents were rarely this constant, and never so mysterious. Now they were forced to weave along ignorantly in a strange world, following the lead of someone they'd just met and could hardly trust. After just two days, Tony had a new motto for life - the unknown threat lurking in the shadows was more terrible than any solid enemy he had ever faced.

Doubt was useless here though, just like hesitation. He forced himself to follow their guide, even if he couldn't exactly trust him, and shoved away the uncertainties that kept running through his mind.

**x**

As they climbed to higher land they left behind the muddy rivers and were able to fill their canteens in much clearer, smaller streams.

They stopped near one and rested for a few minutes in the early afternoon. Gray looked relaxed and unconcerned as he leaned back against a tree and shut his eyes, so the agents relaxed too, only keeping a cursory lookout. They'd learned to rely on Gray's supernatural hearing to warn them of anything dangerous heading their way.

Ziva sat beside Tony and gently stretched her hamstrings, checking her weapon as she chewed yet another meal bar. Tony, limp with exhaustion, leaned against a tree that he had carefully checked for snakes, letting a fresh set of prescription strength ibuprofen get to work.

Something fluttered past his head and he frowned, thinking the bird or insect or whatever it was had gotten awfully close. He looked down lazily and stilled.

An enormous butterfly covered his entire knee. The wings were a brilliant, iridescent orange, standing out like a beacon on his muddy gray camouflage. The wings moved gently up and down, pushed by some infinitesimal breeze too soft for Tony to feel, and the orange coloring flashed into pale purple and back again.

The fuzzy little body, black with neat white rings, marched very, very slowly down his leg.

"Um," Tony cleared his throat. "Is there such a thing as a poisonous butterfly?"

He was joking, sort of. Half-joking. Colorful things were more likely to be deadly things, right? He was pretty sure he'd seen that on NOVA.

Gray cracked an eye open and rolled his head to look at Tony. The agent was absorbed by the huge insect on his leg, and glanced up just in time to see Gray sit forward, a ghost of a smile on his face. His eyes, light and curious, were warm. Tony stared at him, the butterfly forgotten.

Under the tough exterior the kid was . . . really a kid. Not a mini-Kort. Not a means to Gibbs, or some agency asset. A kid.

Tony's heart sank in his chest as he stared. The pressure of the last two weeks retreated somewhat and allowed for a moment of clarity. Gibbs really would kill them for dragging someone they should be _protecting_ into a mess like this. But that was alright, assuming they survived that long.

They would deserve it.

Tony resolved, no matter what, that Gray would get out of here. He'd made that promise already to Pete. Now he made it to himself.

The smile was gone by the time Gray rolled to his feet and approached. He crouched down slowly and laid a finger softly on Tony's leg.

The butterfly encountered the obstacle, evaluated the situation and, undaunted, began to crawl up this new hurdle. Gray gently lifted his finger away, carrying their exotic visitor up into the air like a bird on a perch. The dangerous world around them faded, for a few seconds anyway, as the three of them focused on the delicate insect.

It was such a strange, pristine moment. Tony held his breath.

"No," Gray said finally, still crouched by Tony's knee. "No poisonous butterflies. Less you eat them."

The butterfly seemed to glow in the pale green light that filtered through the trees, the shimmering fabric of its wings the most beautiful color Tony had ever seen.

"Yafefe," Ziva said quietly.

Gray turned his eyes to her. "What's that mean?"

"It is the Hebrew word for beautiful."

The kid looked right at her for a long moment.

It was the first time they'd really acknowledged each other's presence since the park in DC_. _Ziva had studied Gray since then, but hadn't spoken to him. Tony sort of understood that - she was wary of anyone she saw as a killer, and on top of that she felt guilty as hell.

Gray was more puzzling. He ignored her totally, hadn't so much as looked at her since that first meeting, when he'd stared.

Tony suddenly wondered if the kid was just . . . unsure around women. It seemed incredible given how unfazed he was by everything else. But he probably hadn't come across many girls when he was crawling around in this jungle, which he'd clearly spent a lot of time doing. Or even hanging with the ex-Rangers of Ghost Base. It was an all-male facility as far as Tony could tell, and who knew how much of his life had passed in places like that?

Gray finally turned back to the butterfly. "Yafefe," he whispered.

He hadn't ever approached Tony before, much less stayed this close. Gray's face was streaked with dirt, and his equally dirty hair stuck to his skull with the humidity of the jungle. His dark clothes were covered in mud and he stank, just like Tony did, of moldy river water and sweat. The black strap of the compact rifle across Gray's back pressed into his shoulder, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt. Something odd there drew the agent's eyes.

A series of straight, faint lines had been carved into Gray's skin. Tony stared at the scars, trying to figure out what could have made them. They were thin and white and close together, oddly regular, running down from his neck and shoulder, disappearing under the fabric of his shirt.

When Tony dragged his gaze back up to Gray's face the boy was looking right at him.

Gray stood then, turning his palm in the air, lifting the butterfly into flight in one smooth motion.

They watched it disappear, and the moment was gone. Gray shouldered his pack and moved into the trees and Tony rolled to his feet, following automatically.

He stopped when Ziva didn't move.

"Hey," Tony said. She didn't seem to hear him. "Hey, Z. Time to go." He walked over and put a hand out to haul her up.

It wasn't until he was really close that he saw she was shaking, fine tremors running through her shoulders and into the hands wrapped around her legs.

"Ziva? You hurt?"

He didn't think she was, not physically. Tony glanced in the direction the kid went. It was empty except for trees. Whatever she was dealing with, they didn't have time for it.

"Ziva . . . hey, we're gonna get Gibbs out of here, okay? And the kid. We'll get them out."

Her hand came out to him then and he grabbed it, pulled, swinging her up to her feet. He tried to duck down to see her face, catch her eye, but she avoided him. She kept her head down as she adjusted her rifle and the pack on her shoulders, moving rapidly into the jungle, following Gray's path easily.

Solid again, or close enough.

They slept under the net that night, taking turns with the watch.

The third day was the same as the second, sweaty and hard and mostly silent, blurring by in endless green and shadow and tense pauses.

As the afternoon waned things changed. Gray moved more slowly, stopping frequently to crouch and simply listen, or leaving them behind to scout ahead, then circling back to pick them up again.

Tony had removed the compact assault rifle from his pack earlier that day and carried it at his side now, slung forward so that he could bring it into his hands easily. Ziva kept her rifle at the ready as well. It slowed them down on anything steep, since they no longer had both hands free. But that didn't matter as much now that Gray was moving so cautiously.

Finally he led them into a nook in a hill that concealed them from all but a head on view. He held up a hand, signaling for them to wait a minute, and turned his head slowly. Listening. Then he crouched down and motioned them close.

"We're a few hours out from the camp," he said, "The outer ring of fields is up ahead."

His voice was very, very quiet as he reminded them of the outlines of the plan, the one Kort reviewed with Tony and Ziva before they left DC. "I'll go in at dusk with the field workers and retrieve your man. We'll meet outside the camp at a location I'll point out up ahead. If I'm not out by 0100 you come forward and blow one of the towers." He tilted his head toward Ziva, who nodded.

She carried six damn heavy grenades in her pack, as well as the attachment to Tony's rifle that would launch the explosives. She would be happy enough to use the grenades rather than haul them back out.

Gray eyed her a little suspiciously. "That's a distraction to use only in the _worst case scenario,_" he reminded them, about as firm as it was possible to get in a near-whisper. "If you do blow a tower we still meet back at the rendezvous. Anyone who isn't there by the time I reach it finds their own way out of here. I won't stop," he said casually, and finished with, "So, all good?"

Tony and Ziva glanced at each other.

_Good?_ How could this plan even approach good? It didn't seem worthy of the word _plan_. Of course they really only knew a small fraction of it. How exactly was the kid going to get out of the camp with Gibbs? How was he going to get _in_? The idea that he would be able to waltz through the gates without detection seemed ludicrous.

But no one was volunteering that information to the NCIS agents.

Assuming the in-and-out-of-the-camp part worked, how were they going to avoid patrols on the hike out to the border? As soon as Gibbs' disappearance was noticed at least three hundred fighters would begin searching for him. Kort had said that evading followers once they were into the wilderness wouldn't be much of a problem. But just today they barely avoided several patrols, and that was when the Caleras didn't even know there were Feds creeping around in their jungle. Surely it would be a hundred times worse when the cartel began hunting them? And finally, if they missed Gray's one pass through the rendezvous, whenever it came, they would be left behind.

They worked for Gibbs. "Left Behind" was not an ethos with which they were familiar. But the kid had proven that he knew what he was doing so far, and Kort, while slimy and amoral, never struck either of them as incompetent.

Tony looked at Gray. They hadn't gone over the plan since Kort presented it to them in a take-it-or-leave-it way. The team had decided to take it back in DC – what other choice did they have? – but now they were actually about to do it. To commit their lives, and Gibbs' life.

Tony decided it was a good time to be blunt. "Do you think this has a shot in hell of working?"

Gray raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Will you be alright in there?" Ziva asked. "I could probably pass for one of the workers and accompany you. Would that be safer?"

Tony and Ziva looked at Gray expectantly.

The kid pulled back with a weird sort of grimace, halfway to a surprised laugh and halfway to horror. "No."

Tony couldn't help grinning. It was a funny look, and a real one too. That made two.

"This is the best we got." Gray pressed. "If you're not good with it we turn around and go back, or you can try going in there on your own. You'll be killed," he said evenly. "But it's your choice."

Tony and Ziva looked at each other.

_The best we've got_, he'd said. We. The three of them were a team now, sort of. _The best we've got . . ._ And it was true. This was their one chance to snatch Gibbs back from a fate that would truly be worse than death. Hesitate and it would be gone forever. Tony looked into Ziva's eyes and reminded himself of what hesitating had got him before.

This time the agents nodded.

Gray stood up and announced that he was going to pee.

When he returned Ziva took a turn in the bushes. Tony and Gray crouched in the shelter of the hill, sipping their gatorade, Tony washing down more of Ziva's blessed drugs.

He was bringing his canteen up to take another sip when a fuzzy black shape darted out from a crevice in the hill and practically ran over his foot. It was big - the size of Tony's hand, which was half a basketball. And he could tell, even though it was moving really fast, that it had a lot of legs. Too many legs.

Tony hissed and jumped back as best as he could in a crouch.

The thing stopped a few feet away.

It was a spider, a damn enormous furry spider, right out of a horror movie. It had blood red fangs and a whole load of beady black eyes, all of them fixed on Tony.

He had a sudden, somewhat hysterical thought that Abby would really like this critter. It had her fashion sense.

"Um," Tony huffed a strained laugh. The jungle was not boring, he would give it that. "Let me guess. Harmless?"

Gray didn't say anything, just reached a hand back toward the long side pocket of his pack. The other hand crept toward Tony, pushing the agent back gently, slowly. Then he leaned forward a bit.

Tony stiffened instinctively as the kid's arm flashed up from behind them, almost too fast to see. It swung forward with huge force, slamming the flat of a machete onto the ground.

He hit the spider dead center. Its body was smashed completely flat, blue-green blood flying in every direction. The thin black legs waved frantically on either side of the blade, jerking with movement long past death, and then were finally still.

"Want to avoid those," Gray said. Mild voice totally at odds with the sudden violence. He lifted the machete and scraped it against the side of a tree, removing the worst of the fuzzy hairs and sticky blue fluid.

Tony swallowed and looked away from the disgusting carnage. "Poisonous?" he whispered. "Was that thing poisonous?"

"Yeah."

Tony stared at a streak of blue that had landed close to his foot.

Gray looked at him. "Thought you had some kind of study sheet."

Tony lurched to his feet. He'd looked at McGee's study sheet, for a minute. And then he had decided he could cover all his bases, simply and elegantly, by avoiding anything he encountered out here that wasn't on his team. That fit perfectly with the human part of his strategy, because it was the same.

Colombia Rule #2, they'd call it. In the jungle avoid all life forms, human or otherwise, that are not readily identifiable as your partner or your guide. And even the guide . . . Tony glanced at the kid. The odd calm there struck him, for the first time really, as something deadly.

He thought back to Ziva's words on the plane.

So, okay. Probably best to keep something of a safety perimeter around the guide, too.

Ziva walked back into the nook just as Gray slid the machete back into his pack.

"All right," Tony whispered, eyeing the ground. And the kid. "C'mon. Let's find the boss and get the hell out of here."

**x**

They began to see fields far below them through the trees. Tiny figures moved back and forth in the green rows, and tractors drove down narrow dirt lanes. Ziva thought back to the satellite photo of the camp. There were jungle covered hills to the west and a valley of flat plantations to the east. The boy was leading them around the valley, skirting high above it. Finally the camp appeared, and Ziva and Tony paused for a moment to stare down at it.

Gibbs was in there.

They could see the airstrip and the long buildings that Kort said housed the drug labs. Beyond that were the rows of barracks, all framed by the fence. The figures in the towers became clearer as the agents crept downward, closer. There looked to be three men and two mounted machine guns in each.

The sun was setting now, the light fading rapidly. Gray had timed it perfectly. The jungle became shadowy and provided excellent cover while the camp was exposed.

Ziva's heart began to pound. Noises from the sprawling village beyond reached them now, and they could see the smoke rising from hundreds of cooking fires. Much closer were the shouts of men working around the barracks and patrols walking the wire. The gate on the far side of the camp looked busy, men dressed in fatigues – Ziva wouldn't call them soldiers – checking the traffic and searching the steady stream of trucks and people going in and out.

Abruptly Gray stopped and turned to them. He pointed a finger at the ground and made a circling motion. Tony and Ziva looked around. The trees were thick here, and it took them a moment to realize they were on a wide ledge. In front of them, toward the camp, there was a steep drop - almost a cliff. Behind them the hill rose steeply into the wilderness. Just beyond Gray a small stream bubbled down toward the camp.

Ziva nodded. The area was somewhat protected. They would only need to follow the stream back up to find this place again. It was a good point to rendezvous.

Gray dropped his pack on the ground by the stream and dug out a dark, battered canvas hat. He slung the machine gun off his shoulder, propping it against the pack, and pulled the hat down over his head. Its wide brim flopped down, almost covering his eyes.

He looked, suddenly, just like the field workers that passed below them.

"One," he mouthed, tapping his watch. And he was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>an:** _First of all, I don't know Hebrew. Apologies to Hebrew speakers for any mangling of the language._

_The title of this chapter was stolen from Lucille Clifton's poem "Cruelty, Or What I Am Capable Of" (do a google search and you can listen to her read it, which is all kinds of awesome):_

_Cruelty, Or What I Am Capable Of_

_cruelty. don't talk to me about cruelty_

_or what i am capable of._

_when i wanted the roaches dead i wanted them dead_

_and i killed them. i took a broom to their country_

_and smashed and sliced without warning_

_without stopping and i smiled all the time i was doing it._

_it was a holocaust of roaches, bodies,_

_parts of bodies, red all over the ground._

_i didn't ask their names._

_they had no names worth knowing._

_now i watch myself whenever i enter a room._

_i never know what i might do._


	13. MTAC

**Chapter 13: MTAC**

Leon Vance stooped for the retinal scanner and strode into MTAC. The room was empty except for two figures sitting motionless in the first row of seats. Vance relaxed into a chair across the aisle from them.

"How's our team?"

Abby smiled distractedly at him, then went back to the screen in front of her without paying him any mind. She had a laptop balanced across her legs and an enormous Caf-Pow wedged precariously into the cup holder next to her. McGee was more informative. "They're less than five miles out from the camp, sir."

Vance nodded and turned to the screen, watching as two blinking red dots made their way across a field of black. He'd been watching the same thing for most of his free hours since his agents' insertion into the Colombian jungle. The black was periodically intersected by some vague landmark. Scuito and McGee had superimposed the GPS locators onto days-old satellite images pulled illegally from the CIA network.

Occasionally the director's eyes strayed to a faint blue dot moving in front of the red. And then more and more often.

Vance closed his eyes for a second and reached into his jacket pocket for a toothpick, chewing on the slender wood as he considered his options. That was the one thing toothpicks had over cigarettes – you could chew them. Not as satisfying as nicotine, but better than nothing. Finally he stood.

"Can you patch the feed up to my office, McGee? I need to make a phone call."

McGee jerked up. He'd been murmuring to Abby, their heads bent close over the laptop. "Yes sir."

Vance made his way up to his office, eyes still on the screen in front of him as he placed the call. He checked his watch as the phone rang. It was just after 1800.

The greeting was terse, of course. "Kort."

"Agent Kort, this is Leon Vance."

A pause. A long pause.

"Just a moment, Director."

Shuffling noises and a high-pitched voice filtered up though the background. Two voices? Vance raised his eyebrows. He listened to the sound of a door closing, and then silence.

"Something wrong?" Kort's voice was perfectly neutral.

"No, everything's fine. I just thought you might like to come into NCIS. We're watching a show."

Kort didn't miss a beat. "None of my favorite celebrities are in shows at the moment, Director Vance."

Vance watched the red blinking dots, stationary now in a moat of black. It looked like they'd stopped for a break while the pale blue blob moved rapidly away.

Vance ground down on his toothpick. Well, he'd already gone this far. "You sure about that, Kort? All sorts of people are on television these days. You might be on and never even know."

Silence.

"Half an hour," the other man growled, and the line went dead.

Vance sighed. That growl had been anything but neutral.

A security guard escorted Kort up to MTAC. The CIA agent, wearing the usual suit but no tie, stopped in front of the huge screen and stared at the three dots moving slowly across it. The pale blue one had looped around, as it usually did, and picked the red dots back up again, McGee and Abby following closely through it all. The maneuver no longer caused quite the panic it had the first time they split up.

Vance watched Kort take it in. The man was furious.

"What have you done?" His voice was loud in the dark room.

Vance nodded toward the screen. "Dinozzo and David are in red. They're carrying subcutaneous GPS locators. We found a less conspicuous way of tracking your . . . man."

McGee and Abby sat frozen, for once their attention diverted from Tony and Ziva's progress. Kort looked dangerous. More so than usual.

He turned hard eyes to Vance. "He needs to be able to blend, that's his protection. If they're discovered the cartel will find a tracking device no matter how well it's hidden. He'll be marked as a traitor and killed. Instantly."

McGee blinked. A traitor?

Vance gestured toward the screen again, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. "There's no device to be found. Gray isn't carrying a locator. The blue color is an isotope diffused in his bloodstream, one unique enough to be picked up by the same satellite receiving the GPS signals. It isn't as strong as a regular locator and will fade completely in about a week, but it won't be detected in a normal bug sweep."

Kort was motionless, just looking at Vance for a long moment. "An isotope? Are you saying you _irradiated_ him?"

Vance smiled faintly. "Yes."

McGee stood up, glancing quickly at the director. They needed Kort's cooperation for the rest of the mission to work. For Gibbs. A little damage control wouldn't hurt.

"The isotope is harmless," he offered. "Gray won't know it's there and neither will anyone who finds him. If they find him. It's safe."

Kort turned to McGee, who promptly blanched. Tim was a capable agent these days, but that didn't mean he was immune to fear. Kort, at the moment, was damn scary.

"Gray didn't agree to this," Kort said flatly.

McGee and Abby glanced at Vance, but the director didn't seem inclined to say anything.

"How did you introduce it?"

McGee looked to Vance again, who finally nodded. Not that this was likely to calm Kort down.

"Water," McGee said.

Kort stared until he continued. "Tony," McGee hesitated. "Uh - Tony injected a water bottle with the isotope after they left DC. It would have been undetectable to anyone drinking it."

Kort actually looked shocked. "Gray is usually careful about what he eats and drinks," he said slowly. "But I told him he could trust Gibbs' team."

There was silence. _Trust?_ McGee thought. _Kort?_

Abby stood up. "He can! This way we can track him and it's harmless. He's safer."

Kort glanced over all of them and then looked back up at the screen. "You don't know that."

After a moment Vance gestured toward a chair. "They're not far out from the camp now. You're welcome to stay and watch."

Kort didn't respond, but he did sink into a chair. Vance sat a few seats away and McGee and Abby went back to their murmuring.

An hour later the pale blue dot peeled off from the others once again. Vance glanced at Kort. "He's been doing that periodically since they were dropped into the jungle."

Kort was silent.

"Looks like some kind of reconnaissance," Vance prompted.

Kort glanced at him. "Not this time. They're too close to the camp." He turned back to look at the screen. "He's going in."

A second later the phone rang and McGee went to the desk to answer it, Vance's eyes on him.

Very few people in the world would know there was anyone present to answer the phones in this room.

"Agent McGee . . ." McGee glanced toward Vance. "Yes . . . one moment." McGee held up the receiver. "Um, call for you? Kort?"

Kort didn't seem surprised. He crossed the room to take the phone. "Yeah . . . How long? . . . Hold on. I'm giving you back to McGee." Kort held out the phone and McGee took it back slowly.

"Agent McGee," the voice on the other end was scratchy. "Agent Kort has asked me to patch a satellite feed into the NCIS communications center. I'll need authorization and the link from your end."

McGee frowned and glanced at Vance, who had a more than demanding look on his face. "Satellite?"

"That is correct. I have a picture coming through now, coordinates 4.84279 by 73.67883. Will you accept the feed?"

McGee stiffened. Those coordinates were familiar. They were Colombia. "Yes!"

In minutes the static background behind the colored dots on the main screen was wiped away, and a gray-toned, live image materialized in its place. The camp dominated the picture, the jungle an impenetrable black border in the screen's upper edge, fields just beginning to appear at the lower border.

Vance studied the image closely. Bright white dots crawled everywhere. Thermal people. It was remarkably sharp for an evening shot – this had to be an NSA satellite. Night vision would fade in as natural light faded out.

Abby and McGee pored over her laptop, typing rapidly and glancing up at the big screen periodically. A minute later one of the white blobs turned blue.

Kort glanced over at the young NCIS agent and his forensic specialist. That was actually . . . impressive.

The cyberduo grinned at each other like fools and Kort turned back to the screen, eyes locked on the blue dot. Beside him Vance was silent and still, but Kort could feel the man's increased agitation as Gray made his slow way through the camp. Kort's lips turned up in a little grin. He'd suffered more than enough aggravation from NCIS over the years. Any chance to give a little back was entirely satisfying.

Finally the director spoke. "What the_ hell_ is he doing?"


	14. Gibbs

**Chapter 14: Gibbs**

There was a hum in the little shack where they kept Gibbs. An electric buzz. His room didn't have electricity – none of the tiny second floor was wired, as far as he could tell – but light from an electric bulb would seep up through the floorboards late into the night, and sometimes he could hear a radio downstairs.

He was pretty sure there was a soccer game on as he completed yet another series of sit-ups, squats, and push-ups by moonlight. It continued to play while he lay on the floor recovering, stretched out stiffly on his side.

As he dropped off to sleep the camp around him was still noisy, a cool breeze and the voices of working men drifting in through the rough window cut into the wall. There was always activity here. The goods a factory like this produced were lucrative, and it ran twenty-four hours a day.

He woke up a few hours after dark, his body instantly on edge.

Something was different. It took him a second to place it - the faint electric buzz had cut out. The floor below him was dark. He lay listening to shuffling sounds, and to the rise of the guards' annoyed voices. There were footsteps. The downstairs door creaked open and closed.

A low, slow scrape drew his attention to the window.

Gibbs held still, feigning sleep as a shadowy head appeared, backlit by the crescent moon. The head was followed rapidly by a body.

He tensed, ready to defend himself, as a boy swung fast and whisper silent into the room. The figure looked at Gibbs and held his finger to his lips, pushing the palm of his other hand down toward the floor. The universal _stay_.

Gibbs tilted his head to follow the boy's progress across the room, toward the door. The intruder moved carefully, shifting his weight evenly, and managed not to make any noise on the soft old wood under his feet.

When he got to the door the boy examined it closely, but there was nothing to see, really. The guards always padlocked it from the outside. There was nothing to be done about it from the inside, even though the frame of the door itself looked like incredibly flimsy construction. How sturdy the lock or the door really were Gibbs didn't know, since he'd never been able to get close to them. His right hand was cuffed to a narrow pipe that ran from the ground floor up through the roof.

The pipe, he knew for sure, was damn sturdy.

The kid drew back his hand, and Gibbs eyes widened a little. He wasn't going to –

The boy knocked lightly on the wood, then stepped back from it quickly, _noisily_, to stand by the wall next to the door.

Gibbs held his breath. A chair scraped against the floor below him, followed by footsteps moving toward the stairs. The boy was watching Gibbs as he reached into one of the pockets of his pants and pulled something out. Gibbs stared back.

The guard stopped on the landing outside the padlocked door. There was a soft clink of metal against metal – the key hitting the lock – and a rustle as it turned against the pins. Then the clunk of the lock against itself as it was pulled open.

The door swung in and the guard stepped through, rifle held at his side as his eyes ran over Gibbs.

The guard never saw the boy. In the shadowy room, well back from the window, Gibbs couldn't really see him either. But a moment later the guard began to fall. The kid caught him under the arms, staggering with the weight even as he lowering the body gently, quietly to the floor.

Gibbs sat up as the kid pulled the AK-47 off the guard's shoulder and placed it against the wall. He rifled the guards pockets, pulling out the ring of keys, and stepping lightly, quickly toward the door. He cast a look back at Gibbs just before he disappeared through it, and raised his palm again. _Stay._

Gibbs couldn't hear him as he moved down the stairs.

Not thirty seconds later the downstairs door opened and closed again. Gibbs heard the boots of the other guard step into the shack . . . and then the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

A minute later the boy appeared in the doorway again, another AK slung over his shoulder. He crossed the room and crouched beside Gibbs, shuffling through the keys from the guard's ring and finally lifting one of them to the handcuffs. A moment later Gibbs' hand was released.

"¿Esta herido, Gibbs?"

Something like a shiver crawled through his gut. This kid knew his name? The _guards _hadn't known his name.

His Spanish was rusty but he'd learned enough to get by. Sort of. It had come back a bit over the last few weeks, and he shook his head. He wasn't hurt. "¿Quién eres tu?" he tried.

The boy ignored him except to run his eyes in a blatant, doubtful sweep over Gibbs' body - searching for injuries, apparently. Then he reached into one of the side pockets of his pants and pulled something out, holding it toward Gibbs.

It was a package, wrapped carefully in brown paper and sheer plastic. There was writing on the paper, and as he took it from the boy he tilted it toward the moonlight. Gibbs didn't have to hold it at arms' length to read the message - the writing was big and bold, Dinozzo's unmistakable block lettering.

_RULE 9_.

He tore the plastic and then the paper away to reveal his spare knife, the one hidden in his desk at work. No one but his team knew about that knife.

Gibbs looked up as the kid moved from his side toward the guard laying on the floor.

"Sus amigos están afuera," the boy said, the words slow and clear. "Entiende? Es hora de irnos. Ahora."

His friends. Outside?

The kid opened the buttons on the guard's shirt, hauling the torso up so that he could drag the jacket down his arms. He glanced back at Gibbs and jerked his head toward the man's boots.

Gibbs hadn't been farther from the pipe than the length of his arm in almost a week. He surged forward and began unlacing the first boot he reached. When he tugged it off the foot flopped out lifelessly and struck the floor. Gibbs looked up at the boy.

"¿Está muerto?"

The kid shook his head. "Dormido."

Gibbs frowned. Sleeping? Tranquilized, maybe.

A minute later the man had been stripped. Gibbs ignored the boy's scrutiny as he took off his own clothes, long since stiff with old blood and sweat, and dressed in the guard's relatively clean undershirt, camo jacket and pants, finally pulling his own boots back on.

When he rose to his feet the kid was holding out the second rifle to him. Gibbs grasped the barrel, but the boy didn't let go.

"Sígame si quiere vivir, Gibbs. ¿Comprende?"

Right.

"¿Quién eres tu?" he asked again.

The boy's face was neutral as he answered. "Soy su salida."

I am . . . the way out.

Gibbs nodded and the weapon was released into his hands. The kid turned, heading down the stairs, and Gibbs followed.

The other guard was nowhere to be seen, but the boy walked into one of the dark shadows in the back of the shack and came back a second later with a floppy, sweaty canvas hat. When Gibbs pulled it on it was still warm. The kid moved to crouch by one of the open windows and peered out.

It was then that they heard the helicopter. It swept in fast and low, a roar over their heads.

Gibbs stiffened. That wasn't one of the ordinary transports into and out of the camp. Within that roar was the high, distinct beat of an attack helo.

Surely, whoever the "friends" outside were, they weren't stupid enough to assault this place. For one thing, he didn't have that many friends. Gibbs had been able to see out of a part of the window in the room upstairs and had estimated the numbers in the camp. A full assault, he thought quickly, dread rising in his gut. They'd need . . . a thousand, at least. One helicopter definitely wouldn't cut it -

"_Hijo de puta._"

Gibbs glanced at the softly swearing boy crouched next to him, watching as the narrowed eyes tracked the helo across the sky. The agent didn't need any help translating that choice phrase. It was one of Mike Franks' standbys.

Okay. So apparently the helicopter wasn't friendly. Going by the look on the kid's face it wasn't good for the plan either, whatever the plan was.

There was increased activity outside the window, more men moving, voices calling to each other. Whatever the arrival meant, it had stirred things up. The kid stared at the floor for almost a minute and then turned to look at Gibbs.

"Espere aquí," he whispered. "Silencio."

Sit tight. Gibbs nodded.

The kid slipped out the door and was gone.

* * *

><p>an: _Thank you to __Maydin__ for coming forward to help me with the Spanish phrases in this chapter. Muchas gracias!_

_¿Esta herido?: Are you injured?_

_¿Quién eres tu?: Who are you?_

_Sus amigos están afuera. Entiende? Es hora de irnos. Ahora: Your friends are outside. Understand? It's time to go. Now._

_¿Está muerto?: Is he dead?_

_dormido: sleeping_

_Sígame si quiere vivir: Follow me if you want to live._

_Soy su salida: I am the way out_

_hijo de puta: son of a bitch_

_Espere aquí: Wait here_

_silencio: be quiet_


	15. MTAC  Arrivals

**Chapter 15: MTAC - Arrivals**

Vance wasn't sure how the guide got into the camp. They hadn't pinpointed his location in time to see that.

He was merely confused when the blue dot moved into what looked like a large and very lonely hangar sometime after nightfall. Vance glanced over at Kort, but the CIA agent looked relaxed. Calm.

Confusion shifted to concern when the kid stayed in the hangar for thirty-five solid minutes, the blue dot tracking slowly, ceaselessly through the space.

There was no one else in that building, no bodies warm enough to register a thermal signature anyway.

Gibbs was alive, according to Kort's intelligence. A warm body. And time was of the essence on any rescue op. So why was the kid crawling around in an empty hangar?

Vance shifted, jerkily unbuttoning his suit coat. He rearranged himself in his chair, hands curling into fists automatically as he continued to stare at the screen. His old response to stress - the one he'd drilled into himself when he was just an angy teen at a cheap boxing gym. It had never left him. His fists were forever hopeful that a punching bag would materialize in his most difficult moments.

But punching something wasn't going to help him here. Vance couldn't even shoot anything in the service of this cause. Ironic, but the higher up the ladder he climbed the less control he seemed to have in situations like this - the less he could actually _do_. As director he could only watch, and wait for the dust to settle on the chess board.

It's not like he was in any position to question what the kid was doing, Vance fumed. Technically the director of NCIS wasn't even aware this operation was taking place. His agents certainly weren't crawling around a private compound in Colombia, armed to the teeth. And Leon Vance, head of a federal agency, _definitely_ wasn't watching the entire nonexistent, highly-illegal operation unfold on some shanghai'd phantom satellite.

Vance took a breath and relaxed his fists long enough to smooth his reassuringly expensive silk tie. Then he took out another toothpick and began to chew. It was Kort's show. Leon would wait it out.

Finally the kid left the hangar.

And went right into the one next door.

Vance turned to the man sitting a few feet away and just sort of . . . burst. "What the _hell_ is he doing?"

Kort didn't move. But he was smirking, the bastard. "Hmm?"

"What is he doing in . . . McGee, what the hell is that building?"

"Truck bay, Director," McGee answered promptly. He was dying to know what was going on too, but Vance would get further questioning Kort than a lowly field agent ever would.

Kort smiled for real. Well, really amused. Not really friendly. "Your crack agents figured out where the cartel keeps its trucks, did they? Good job." He nodded to McGee and Abby and returned his attention to the screen.

"Gibbs isn't in a truck bay, Kort. You said he'd most likely be held in one of the guard huts. What's going on?"

Kort studied the screen closely. "Gray will rescue your precious agent, Director Vance. There is no need to fret."

Kort wasn't concerned. But the CIA agent didn't seem inclined to share any more details, so the four of them continued to sit there in silence. Abby hunched over her laptop, McGee's hand curled in hers, and watched that blue speck, waiting for something that looked like a rescue.

It was hours before the kid made his way to the ring of small buildings sitting beyond the troop barracks. He skirted several of the huts before stopping at one that glowed brightly with three white dots.

Abby, McGee, and finally Vance all looked to Kort.

The man was motionless, cool. But his gaze was intense, his focus on the screen total. Abby brought McGee's hand up to her chest and squeezed.

The structure was very small, the four dots practically on top of each other on the screen. There was no way to tell what was really happening between those blurry, faraway people, but they all continued to stare regardless.

It was only a minute or two later that the secure MTAC phone rang again, loud in the tense atmosphere. McGee jumped to answer and once again held the receiver out to Kort, who walked to the desk and took the call without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Yes . . . " The man stiffened, went from cool to explosive in the blink of an eye. A second later his voice barked through the quiet room. "_How far? . . . _Damn. Get Rodge to track it, I want an update on movement in the entire sector. And pull back the image here, do it now."

Abby squeaked in dismay as the satellite pulled back drastically, reducing the camp to the size of a postage stamp.

That's when they saw it. A streak of light at the corner of the picture, heading straight for Camp Six.

Vance sat forward. "What is that?"


	16. Que Pasa?

**Chapter 16: ¿Qué pasa?**

He kept his body quiet, though it wanted to scream, and let his senses reach out to hear what was happening outside the shack. He heard plenty. Just nothing that meant anything to him.

Gibbs checked the rifle in his hands and shifted behind the door so that he could get the drop on anyone who came through it. Men and trucks passed, but no one entered.

Ten minutes . . . fifteen . . . twenty.

The kid was gone, but some kind of plan was in motion. A plan Gibbs didn't know, which happened to be his least favorite kind. Time dragged on, so slow it almost seemed to stop.

It was excruciating.

Gibbs had no watch, they'd taken it from him back in Mexico. He stopped tracking time after the estimated half-hour mark and began planning what he would do if no one came back for him. The guards usually changed in the morning, just after sunup. He would have to be gone from this shack before then.

Maybe forty-five minutes had passed before there was a lull in activity outside. Gibbs was just about to move to the window and risk looking out when the door opened a crack. The kid flew in and slumped against the closest wall, shutting the door behind him gently as he sank down to the filthy floor, breathing hard.

Gibbs watched the kid regain his breath. And then a minute passed in silence, the boy just sitting there, ignoring the agent standing over him.

So Gibbs finally asked. "¿Qué pasa?"

"Espera."

Right. Gibbs licked his dry lips and dredged up the words, digging through memories of his last op in Colombia to find them. "¿Sabes quién es . . . en el helicóptero?"

The boy was silent, staring at the far wall of the shack as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Finally he said, very low, "El diablo."

Which was great, really. So helpful. The agent frowned at the sweaty, indifferent face before him and shook his head a little, hoping for more. He got nothing.

It wasn't like Gibbs was in any position to interrogate the kid. And with his Spanish he wasn't sure that he would understand the answers even if he got them. So he didn't ask more questions.

Instead Gibbs stood patiently by the door, like a sentry, ready for any threat that might come through it. Waiting for whatever came next.

When he sensed eyes on him he looked back down at the kid.

It wasn't too unusual for people to stare at Gibbs. He was a cop. Desperate people stared at him in hairy situations, angry people stared at him across the interrogation table, grieving people stared at him in interview rooms. But in a situation as tense as this one it was strange for a kid to sit that quietly, to look that long. He must have been looking for something - Gibbs just didn't know what.

Finally the boy rolled to his feet, graceful and utterly silent, and crossed the room. He stayed well away from the windows as he disappeared into the shadows in the back of the shack.

Gibbs focused all of his attention on what his ears were telling him about the outside world. He absently registered the boy coming back a moment later, carrying something in his hand - a canteen. He slid noiselessly back down the wall, sitting on the floor a few feet from Gibbs, well hidden from anyone passing by. He unscrewed the metal cap to take a sip.

"Hey."

It was a whisper, loud in the absolute silence of the shack. Gibbs looked down to see the boy once again holding out his hand. In the faint light coming through the window two white tablets gleamed in the outstretched palm. Gibbs looked at them and back at the boy.

"Le duele," the boy said tersely. "Yo sé."

So the kid had seen. Gibbs peered at the pills again and recognized the stamp on them. His old friend, prescription Motrin. Grunt candy.

Ducky once told Gibbs you might as well drink battery acid - the long term damage to your stomach and liver would be about the same. But the kid was right. Every breath hurt, and when he actually moved . . . Gibbs picked up the tablets and was about to crunch them down dry when the canteen was held out.

He swallowed down the pills and whispered a low thanks. The kid ignored him, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. Like this was a prime time to take a nap.

Gibbs bit back an almost overwhelming urge to run for it. To just slip out the door, into the dark, and head for the hills. But with the knife and the message Dinozzo had told him to trust the kid. And Gibbs would, because he trusted Dinozzo. He just didn't like not knowing the plan.

The kid said they needed to wait. But for what?

Gibbs fingered the familiar knife in his pocket and reminded himself that the current situation, however frustrating, was a huge improvement over being handcuffed to a pipe.

Another twenty minutes passed before the boy got up and peered out the window again. Finally he rose to his feet and turned to Gibbs, looking him over. He reached up, hands deliberately slow and open, and tugged down firmly on Gibbs' hat, hiding his hair and eyes. He did the same to his own hat, then turned toward the door and crooked a finger at the agent behind him.

"Sígame. Lentamente," he whispered. And he was out the door.

Gibbs took a breath and followed, stepping nonchalantly out into the night. The moon was gone now, hiding behind stray clouds, and the way was very dark.

They strolled toward a big truck parked a few buildings away. There didn't seem to be anyone around at that moment, at least not close by, and Gibbs didn't risk turning his head to scan the area. They were exposed, but must have looked like any other pair of guards patrolling the camp.

It seemed like the kid was going to walk past the truck as they approached it, but at the last second he unhooked the back door and jumped smoothly in, disappearing under the high awning. Gibbs followed immediately, launching himself into the impenetrable black pit.

For a moment he was thankful that he'd stretched and exercised his legs while chained to that damn pipe, even if it was agony at the time. Then every thought was overwhelmed by the stench. The kid, invisible next to him in the black, reached out and latched the door shut behind them. A second later a tiny flashlight switched on, but Gibbs didn't need it to know what he'd just jumped into.

They were crouched in manure.

He'd used a bucket in the shack, one the guards emptied when they felt like it. It was pretty smelly, given the laziness of the men watching him and his own body's reaction to what they fed him. This was worse.

It was piled highest in the middle. The kid made his way to the edge of the bed, where there was some room to move, and then began to crawl forward, totally ignoring the shit. Gibbs followed, breathing as lightly as possible to keep from passing out.

When they reached the front of the hold the boy knocked twice on the metal wall separating the bed of the truck from the cab. An instant later the engine started and they were moving. The boy moved around Gibbs and pushed the agent's body firmly back and down, finally pressing in after him until they were both tucked into a pocket of space against the wall of the cab, shielded from the door by a mountain of manure. Anyone opening the latch and shining a light in would see . . . shit. If they really looked hard they might see the kid, but not Gibbs.

When he was satisfied with their positions the boy pressed the gun he carried down into the manure in front of him, effectively burying it, and motioned for Gibbs to do the same. The rifles stuck up higher than their heads, making them much more visible. After the agent buried the nose of his weapon the flashlight blinked out and the interior of the truck turned black again.

They rumbled over the pitted dirt roads that ran through the camp for several minutes, more trucks and voices swelling around them. They were getting closer to some center of activity. Eventually the truck ground to a halt.

Gibbs guessed they were at a gate, or close to one. He'd had a hood over his head when he came into the camp but he knew there must be a fence of some kind around it.

"No se mueva," the boy beside him breathed.

No kidding, Gibbs thought. They were both still as stone, their heads pressed down into their knees.

What seemed like an incredibly long time passed. The truck inched forward.

There was a rapid conversation just a few feet away. Someone was talking to the driver, or to someone standing very close to him. A few seconds later a flap rustled on the right side of the truck and a draft of sweet fresh air entered. Light swept the interior, just visible from Gibbs' peripheral vision.

The light disappeared and the flap dropped. Boots crunched as they circled the truck . . . the covering on the left side lifted. Gray on black shadows chased each other across their dangerous little cave, and then the flap dropped back into place, the total black swallowing them up again.

A second later the engine grumbled back to life, the truck lurched forward, and they were moving again.

They'd gone only a few feet when an explosion echoed over the camp.

* * *

><p><strong>an:**_ Thanks to __**Flowsnake**__ and an anonymous reviewer for the Spanish language corrections made to this chapter. Muchas gracias!_

_Translations:_

_¿Qué pasa?: What's happening?_

_espera: wait_

_¿Sabes quién es . . . en el helicóptero?: Do you know who is . . . in the helicopter?_

_El diablo: the devil_

_Le duele, yo sé: It hurts, I know._

_Sígame. Lentamente: Follow me. Go slow._

_No se mueva: Don't move._


	17. MTAC  Departures

**Chapter 17: MTAC - Departures**

_"What is that?"_

Kort didn't bother to look at Vance. The CIA agent stood very still as he tracked the streak of light across the screen. Too still.

McGee retreated back to his seat, and to Abby. Kort had the same aura of barely there control that Gibbs sometimes got when bad things were happening . . . when the boss would walk around and speak to absolutely everyone with quiet, merciless rage. It was like the man was standing on a barrel of dynamite - holding down a fury that teetered on destroying everything in its path.

"That is an attack helicopter carrying Roberto Londono," Kort said, white-knuckle calm. "Tyler - tighten in as it approaches C6. Don't lose track of Gray, he's marked in blue on the NCIS feed. You have him?"

Kort stayed on the phone as the helicopter made its way to the camp. Both images became larger on screen until the chopper finally emerged from the black background of the jungle and swept over the muted gray of the camp. They watched as it flew almost directly over the blue dot.

"Agent McGee, I want anyone who gets out of that helicopter tracked through the camp," Kort demanded.

McGee nodded and got to work. When the chopper landed and four thermal dots emerged, they were marked in hot pink.

The audience in MTAC watched as the blue dot peeled off from the guard hut and made its way carefully through the camp, sticking to a slow route that skirted around the more populated areas. He met up with someone briefly, then returned to the hut rapidly.

Nearly half an hour later Gray reemerged with one bright white companion.

Abby seized Tim's hand again and squeezed. "Gibbs!" she whispered.

Kort watched fiercely as the pink dots retreated into one of the houses and stayed there, white figures closing in and moving around them like stars in a dance.

It was well past midnight in Colombia now. They checked their watches as the end of the hour approached. By 0045 the truck carrying the blue dot had approached the gate . . . 0052 idling in line . . . 0058 they were almost there . . .

At precisely 0100 two blinking red dots emerged for a moment from the dark trees in the upper corner of the image. A bright light bloomed in one of the guard towers, and then - all four of them sucked in gasps as a huge white flare exploded through the northwest quadrant of the camp, engulfing an entire long building.

That was way bigger than a grenade.

Kort recovered a second later, gaze fixed on the screen as he spoke low and fast into the phone. "What the hell was that?"

He listened to the analyst on the other end of the line as the others watched the screen, the intense white glow at the upper half of the picture slowly fading, the image obscured by smoke and growing cloud cover. No one was really looking at the fire, though, whatever it was. Abby silently turned and hugged the life out of McGee.

Gibbs and the blue dot were already outside the gates.


	18. Fire

**Chapter 18: Fire**

The first explosion was followed rapidly by three more. Shouting and motors revved behind them, but the truck rumbled on. The camp was already fading away.

The road they were on must have been atrocious but they moved over it steadily anyway, and at a good clip. Gibbs and the boy knocked hard into each other and the wall behind, gripping the slats in the metal bed beneath them to keep from being thrown forward into the muck. Maybe fifteen bone-jarring minutes out Gibbs felt the truck turn to the right. A minute later they ground to a halt, and something knocked twice through the wall that separated them from the driver sitting in the cab.

The flashlight flicked on.

The kid extracted his rifle from the manure and moved quickly to the back of the truck. Gibbs did the same, jumping out after him and sucking in clean air gratefully, looking around to get his bearings. The moon was obscured by clouds now, but from the weak light of stars still shining through patches of clear sky he could tell they were in some sort of well-tended field.

The kid settled the rifle strap across his shoulders and quietly latched the back of the truck.

"Sígame," he said, and then he was running.

Gibbs did as he was told.

There was enough light to navigate by through the field, but when they reached the tree line a few minutes later they rocketed into total black. Gibbs stopped and put a hand in front of his face. He couldn't see it. He listened for the kid and heard him moving in front of him. Suddenly his hand was grasped and he was pulled forward.

They were headed uphill, and fast. Gibbs stepped high to avoid stumbling too often, but the way was relatively smooth. He thought they must be on some kind of trail, though if they were it was narrow. Leaves and branches slapped against him constantly, and the hat he was wearing was torn away.

They climbed steeply for half an hour, Gibbs almost literally blind, before the way began to level out. The vegetation wasn't as incredibly dense this high up and a little more light filtered through the trees.

Almost as soon as Gibbs could see well enough to move on his own his hand was dropped and they turned to the right, off of the faint trail and into the wild.

But . . . if they were turning right they were headed back toward the camp. Gibbs slowed in surprise and almost immediately lost sight of the boy.

The hesitation lasted only a moment. Gibbs grit his teeth and followed his guide, the two of them running swift and silent through the dark.

After half an hour they began to hear it. Shouting voices, faint but there in the distance. Soon after that Gibbs caught glimpses of orange flames and weird yellow-green smoke far below.

_Green,_ thought Gibbs. _Chemical fire. _That was the only other thought to interrupt the mantra that had been pounding through his head for the last half hour. Which was,_ What the hell are we doing circling back to the camp?_

Suddenly the kid stopped and crouched down. Gibbs was following so closely in the poor light that he almost ran over him. The boy picked up a dark shape – it was a pack. He flipped it open and dug into it, then threw the bag over his shoulders.

The kid's arm stretched toward him, holding something out. But Gibbs was already turning away, swinging the rifle in his hands to point up the steep incline to his left. There was something up there. He searched the black trees, straining to hear any movement.

"Boss?"

Gibbs was too shocked to move for a second. Then he lifted his finger off the trigger.

"_Tony?_"

"Boss!" A shape slid rapidly down the incline in front of him. No, two shapes.

And then Dinozzo and Ziva were standing in front of him, eyes wide, looking just as shocked as he felt.

Something was thrust into Gibbs' chest. He looked down and caught a set of night vision gear just before it dropped to the ground. A second later a stubby, lightweight assault rifle was literally tossed at his head. Gibbs snatched it out of the air and looked it over. It was a good gun, German model – better for accuracy and power than the AK's the boy had taken off the guards.

"Sígame," the kid hissed, already turning away. Gibbs looked quickly back to Tony and Ziva, feeling disoriented, and tried to evaluate their condition as best he could in the dark.

"Let's get out of here, boss," Tony whispered. _We're good_.

Gibbs pulled on the night vision gear and spun to take off after the boy. As soon as he caught sight of him the kid cut left, moving up the mountain again, but not climbing the hill itself. He was in a steam.

The rocks on the stream bed were slippery, but regular enough to make climbing them relatively easy. They moved rapidly, the noise of their retreat covered by the sound of the water. Eventually the kid left the stream behind and began moving through rough terrain again, climbing fast.

Finally they paused near the crest of the hill, where an opening in the trees gave a view of the spectacular fire in the camp below. The four of them pulled off their goggles and stooped with their hands on their knees, panting quietly as they studied the chaos below them. Tony wondered how long it would be before the cartel's men connected the mayhem to Gibbs.

Probably not long.

As the agents regained their breath they looked almost as one to Gray, ready to move again. But the boy stood looking at the fire as if mesmerized by the unnatural red glow.

Tony was startled to see emotion there. He looked angry - _scared_.

Tony sucked in another breath and ran a hand through his hair, then checked his weapon. Unconscious movements that usually helped to calm him down. Ziva and Tony's part of the plan . . . well, it definitely hadn't gone according to plan.

When Gray took off for the camp they'd prepared for the worst, just in case, using the last of the natural light to attach the launcher to Tony's weapon and shift the grenades in Ziva's pack to an outer pocket for easier access.

They'd kept an eye out for patrols even as they practiced operating the launcher, Ziva simulating aiming and firing and Tony loading, trying to increase their speed. If they launched the grenades rapidly and accurately enough they would be able to take out a target without giving away their position, and maybe even conceal the cause of the explosions.

They were prepared and waiting with over an hour to go before the deadline when the sharp, beating report of a helicopter echoed through the valley. The tone was higher than the Black Hawk they'd flown in on.

"That is an attack helicopter, Tony." Ziva's tone was fierce, the stoic patience of the past week finally abandoned. She was in fight mode now, all targeted fury.

Tony nodded and looked at his watch. According to Kort's intelligence the highest men up in the organization flew into the camp on attack helicopters, but that was supposed to happen only rarely. The men at the top of this cartel maintained respectability within the government by keeping their hands clean, appointing lieutenants to handle the actual running of the camps.

Whatever this was, it was unexpected. They just had to hope it wouldn't derail Gray's plan.

And, Ziva pointed out, they must also hope that the sophisticated helicopter didn't have the ability to track them through the jungle. But if it was equipped with thermal imaging . . .

They decided to move forward and find a good firing position. There were two towers in reasonable range. They chose as their target the one that was mere yards from where the agile helicopter now sat on a concrete section of airstrip. It was parked right in front of the labs, the deadly machine shining in the moonlight like an enormous black scorpion.

Ziva crept back up to the meeting spot to make sure they didn't miss Gray, but he hadn't showed.

At one minute past 0100 Ziva launched a grenade into the tower. The hit was perfect. Within moments the flimsy wooden platform was engulfed in flames.

She aimed a second grenade at the helo but missed by a hair, the explosive slamming into the lab behind it instead. A third grenade punctured the tail of the helicopter and then exploded, blowing the back half of the craft to pieces.

The agents turned and ran. As they scrambled up the slope there was another huge explosion. And then another. It wasn't from ordinance. Something in that lab had blown, and blown big.

Now, an hour later, two of the lab buildings poured thick black smoke, their chemical contents apparently just as volatile as a warehouse full of grenades, strong enough to reach out and engulf the helicopter and the smoking husk of the destroyed guard tower, too.

The internal explosions may even confuse the true cause of the mayhem, though if it wasn't yet obvious to those guards that they'd been attacked, they would figure it out soon enough.

Gray flinched back slightly as yet another explosion rocked up from within one of the structures.

"You alright?" Tony reached out to steady him.

Gray's body jumped as if the agent's hand was an electric cattle prod. A whipcord arm struck out instantly, punching Tony's hand away with surprising force. The kid turned to face him, the posture of his slight body menacing. "No me toques," he hissed.

The kid was _enraged_. His features distorted with it, eyes wide, breath harsh.

Tony pulled back, startled, holding his hands up.

Gibbs watched the weird tension silently, looking from Tony to Ziva and back to Gray, with the weapon the boy himself had given him held ready at his side. Gibbs was used to being in charge in the field, but he didn't know what the situation was here. So he watched, and stayed quiet.

After a moment Gray turned sharply away from the three agents, and from the fire. He muttered a low, "Espere aquí," and melted into the trees.

A minute passed, then two. Five.

Tony tightened his grip on the chunky assault rifle in his hands and scanned the jungle surrounding them for threats, trying not to let the situation get to him. But the kid – their guide – was off somewhere, _angry._ Really angry. The surreal, steady cool he'd always shown before had blown away, just like the lab they'd destroyed.

Whatever the kid's problem was, in already desperate conditions it seriously rattled Tony's nerves. He was spine-tinglingly aware that he and his team were alone except for Gray, vulnerable to the hostile forces moving around them. The kid was their one link back to the base – to survival.

Tony's eyes met Ziva's and he could see the same apprehension growing in her. Now that they had Gibbs out of the camp, other problems were taking priority. First and foremost, they were utterly, stupidly reliant on Kort's asset.

Tony flashed back to the CIA agent's harsh words at that meeting in the park. _He will detach himself from your team at the first sign of detection . . ._

If Kort was right the kid may already be gone.

Tony scrubbed a hand through his hair again and surveyed the shadowy trees around them, trying to peel back the layers of dark foliage with a hard stare. Gray could be meeting with anyone right now. The kid could be setting up an ambush for them. Or he could simply be running, saving his own skin before the cartel's wrath came down on them . . .

Which would be nothing compared to Gibbs' wrath if they brought along a kid and then _lost_ him.

Tony squeezed the stock of the gun in his hands and tried to stop thinking. It really wasn't helping.

He was startled from his growing unease by Gibbs, whose patience had finally worn out. Their boss turned abruptly from watching the fire and monitoring the area for targets to look at Tony and Ziva. His face was a little thinner than it had been just two weeks ago, but his eyes, glinting in the faint light of the stars, were sharper than ever.

"You two want to tell me what the hell you're doing here?"

* * *

><p><em>an: Thanks once again for following along, and for your reviews! This chapter's Spanish dictionary:_

_sígame: follow me_

_No me toques: Don't touch me._

_espere aquí: wait here_


	19. Rain

**Chapter 19: Rain**

Tony peered back at Gibbs through the dark.

He felt something well up inside him then that he didn't normally associate with being on the receiving end of a Gibbs glare.

Relief.

It was so sharp and sudden he felt his joints go loose. His knees literally felt weak. They'd found him, he thought. They'd _got_ him. Tony could reach out and touch him.

The senior agent looked his fill of Gibbs' glare and said the only thing that came to mind. "You need to stop disappearing on us, boss."

Gibbs was unprepared for totally honest Dinozzo – it wasn't something you saw too often. It took him a second to recover his train of thought and plow on. "Do you have any idea who these people are?" he hissed, waving a hand at the destroyed labs below them. "You're going to get yourselves killed!"

Just ten days ago Gibbs' displeasure could at least count on Tony's cooperation; Tony's own mind would usually begin kicking itself now, right in time with Gibbs' verbal lashing.

But not today.

He took a quick break from Gibbs' glare to scan the trees around them. "Then you better stop disappearing to dangerous places, boss."

Gibbs stared at Tony. And Tony stared back.

If you could stand up to Gibbs and not be moved you were human titanium, a man made of kevlar. Tony had never been more grateful for his own irrational pride. It was pride that gave him the strength to do it – to stare Gibbs down, on this round at least.

And he _was_ proud, damn it. They'd found him and they'd come, and now they'd grabbed Gibbs back from the bowels of hell. If they'd yet to fight their way out of here, well, it was best to start that fight feeling as strong as he possibly could. Just like this.

There was movement to their left then, in the periphery of the agents' glares. They swung their rifles to face it at the same moment that the kid reappeared, materializing out of the trees and directly into their sights. He ignored the three weapons pointing at him and motioned to them sharply. _Come._

Then he disappeared back into the black cover of the jungle, moving at what looked like a rapid clip. Tony glanced at Gibbs.

The team leader nodded.

Dinozzo plunged into the trees after Gray. He was followed by Ziva, with Gibbs in the rear. They gripped their weapons tight, and moved quick and silent through the shadows.

**x**

Dark jungle. Green stars. An endless, menacing black tangle of trees, leaves whispering and strange. Screeching, slithering, rustling, buzzing - everywhere the fierce maelstrom of life. And always, the invisible enemy hunting, dark and quiet and deadly.

Just like him.

It was familiar. He'd been here before, alone. And he had not been afraid.

But he wasn't alone now. The faint green glow of his team moved in front of him. Young agents, bright and good and eager, pushing through the dark curtain in front of them. Bold in the face of enemies they did not understand. Careless before an indifferent, monstrous wilderness. Tearing into the unknown like a child into the street.

It was terrifying.

At the first hint of dawn they pulled off the night vision, not bothering to stop as they stuffed the gear into their packs. Every step was one more between them and the cartel.

Until it wasn't. Gibbs felt his senses orienting toward the threat a split-second before Gray sank down at the front of the line, Tony and Ziva following like puppets on a string.

He could heard it clearly when they'd stopped. Movement to their left, and close.

Gray looked back at the agents following him, evaluating. The boy's hand went up to keep them still even as the slight body shifted, coiled - he was about to move.

Gibbs popped upright and caught the kid's eye. The agent pointed firmly at the boy and then to the right, and finally swept his palm out flat. _Retreat. And stay there._

The kid looked at him blankly for a moment, precious seconds slipping by. Then he held up two fingers. Gibbs nodded, and the boy backed silently away.

The team leader crept forward until he was in a huddle with Ziva and Dinozzo.

"Bait," he mouthed to Ziva, pointing at her and gesturing for her rifle in the same movement.

He held up two fingers in case they hadn't seen the kid's count, then pointed to Dinozzo and himself. _You're with me_.

Gibbs nodded to Ziva and she began to move through the trees to their left, her feet just a bit careless, her progress a little less quiet than it had been.

Gibbs pointed at himself and Dinozzo and tugged on an ear. Tony nodded, his face already tight with the effort of moving silently. He had the least experience of all of them in this, though since the mission began he'd gotten better at stealthy maneuvering in a hurry. Nothing like practicing twenty hours a day with your heart in your throat.

Gibbs turned and began to walk slowly forward, absolutely quiet. The movements of the guards they were stalking covered any slight noise the agents did make as they slipped into position behind the two-man patrol.

The guards detected Ziva's presence and called out, ordering that she reveal herself even as they closed in on her. They finally caught a glimpse of her, a picture of innocence, just as Gibbs and Tony leapt forward and tackled them. The Calera men were slender, definitely shorter, and caught unaware. They were on the ground and subdued before they could fire their weapons, Ziva's pistol aimed at their heads for good measure.

Gibbs took a breath and closed his eyes. Then he adjusted his hold on the warm neck beneath him and wrenched, snapping it easily. He stood and pushed Tony aside from the other guard, killing the second man before either the guard or his agents had registered his intent.

He looked the two bodies over quickly. They didn't have packs with any equipment that might be useful. Their weapons would only be a burden to carry. They'd leave them where they lay.

When he looked up he caught Dinozzo's open-mouthed stare, his appalled eyes. A match for Ziva's dark, wary gaze. He ignored them. The two of them shouldn't be here - the agents he'd trained had no business in a place like this, where justice didn't exist. Certainly not at his hands.

Gibbs turned and led them silently back to their starting point, where Gray was sitting with Ziva's rifle propped against the tree beside him. The boy stood when they reappeared and wordlessly continued up the hill.

**x**

Gray moved impossibly fast. The agents following him gripped their guns and regulated their breathing, scanning the area around them constantly for threats, but mostly concentrated on keeping up.

They crossed a series of rivers, Gray and Gibbs gratefully scraping off the worst of the muck from the manure truck, and paused mere seconds to fill canteens. The kid wedged the AK he'd been carrying under a log rotting along the shore of a weedy stream, where it would likely never be found. Gibbs watched him with curious eyes.

"No quieres tu arma?"

"Más seguro sin ella," Gray muttered.

Gibbs frowned. He'd noticed the kid also had a pistol strapped to his back, hidden under his shirt. But still, safer _without_ the rifle?

Tony passed Gibbs an empty collapsable canteen along with a course of antibiotics and some sort of nutritional powder that the Rangers had given him for Gibbs' water, designed to help him back from whatever havoc his system might be suffering after his days at the camp.

"Also got a present from Abby for you, boss." Tony held up the needle and syringe. Gibbs scowled but pulled up his sleeve, and Tony punched the locator into his skin, just like Abby had shown him. He buried the empty syringe and case in the river mud.

Gibbs dumped the powder into his canteen without comment and Tony took a moment to look him over critically. The pace Gray set was hard and they were all hurting, but they didn't know what had happened to Gibbs at the camp. He looked okay . . .

Tony thought back to Gibbs' injuries in the past. He'd seen him shot before, and with broken bones, walking around and talking like nothing had happened. Unless he was in a coma Gibbs always _looked_ okay.

"You okay, Boss?"

Gibbs said nothing, just nodded toward Gray and stuffed his half-full canteen back into Tony's pack. The boy was moving again.

Four hours later they huddled together to rest in a clearing. The agents sat on a low boulder, Tony and Gibbs both gratefully extending sore knees. A deep, misty blue dawn gave way to a dark day. Drizzling rain had started a few hours back and very little light filtered down to them through the dripping canopy.

They were soaked and tired. But so far they had slipped through the trees unnoticed.

Gray crouched in the grass a few feet away, ignoring them totally. His knees were pulled up, his head bowed down, and in his dark, dirty clothing he looked more like an inanimate object - a rock, or a stump - than a boy. He seemed impervious to the rain, oblivious to the fact that he was sitting in an inch of water.

Gibbs had been almost silent since the tense exchange with his agent above the camp was interrupted. Now he leaned forward and spoke to Tony in a low voice, barely audible above the rain.

"Tell me how we're getting out of here, Dinozzo."

Tony tensed, certain a confrontation with Gibbs was looming. But he kept his eyes on Gray. He didn't like that strange posture . . . the kid hadn't looked like that before the fire.

It didn't look like fear anymore, or even rage. Tony couldn't figure out what it was, much less what had caused it. Was the kid in shock after risking his life sneaking through that camp? Or was he angry about the fire, about what he and Ziva had done?

The smashed spider leapt into Tony's mind. Casual, sudden violence, like a reflex. Calm and strange, and hard to read, like that massive snake in the moonlight. Like the kid's dead eyes, except for that one golden moment, when he smiled at a butterfly.

It was like the explosions back at the camp, and Gibbs with those defenseless guards, and a thousand other things since they'd jumped from a Black Hawk into a dark, abandoned field. The rules of this place, the language - none of it made any sense to Tony. Somehow he doubted the things happening here would ever really make sense to him. He just wanted to survive long enough to escape it. Then he would pack this jungle away, put it behind him.

The kid sat there in front of them still as a statue, as if he wasn't even alive. It was unsettling. Of course Tony knew the kid was dangerous before. But now he was confusing, too, like everything else here apparently, a volatile unknown. If this were a horror movie, Tony thought idly, Gray would lead them to some quiet corner of the jungle, pull on a hockey mask, and hack them all to pieces with his machete.

"Dinozzo," Gibbs growled.

Anyway, the way the kid looked - he just didn't like it. And he liked where the coming conversation with Gibbs was headed even less.

_Tell me how we're getting out of here? _

_If we ever get out of here_, Tony thought.

"Easy, boss," he finally said, cocky and light. Like a perfect asshole. "We hike to the border of Calera land and hitch a ride on a helicopter with some friendly Rangers."

Rain dripped steadily from Gibbs' hair and down his face as he stared at his agent. He'd never bought the Dinozzo asshole, not the first time they'd met and not for a second since. It was always a front, a deflection. The question was - a deflection from what?

"There's a team waiting for us at the border? Where's the pickup?" Gibbs' tone was too polite.

Tony laughed shortly. "Not exactly waiting. We have to signal them when we're clear. As for finding the border – that's what we brought him for." He nodded his head toward Gray.

The three agents focused briefly on the slight form huddled in front of them, a pregnant pause following Tony's words.

They brought the kid in with them.

And as to where they were? Where they were going? No clue, really.

Ignorance in any form was not to Gibbs' liking. And Tony had no doubt that Gibbs assumed up till then that the kid was _from_ the camp. Gray was actually encouraging that little fiction, if the sudden switch to Spanish was anything to go by.

Gibbs' shock was palpable, like a buzz in the air.

He ignored the boy for the moment and turned back to Tony, blue gaze incredibly cold. Tony couldn't help hearing an echo as he glanced at the man at his side. An echo of cartilage, its pop and grind as Gibbs twisted, broke it. Executed two men with his bare hands.

"That's what he's_ for_? You mean to tell me _you_ _don't know_?"

Tony plowed ahead, Perfectly Oblivious Asshole still firmly in place. There was nothing he could do about Gibbs' anger now, or the cold look in his eyes. They'd done what they had to do, uncomfortable as that was for all of them when it came to the kid, and there was no taking it back.

"Well, the plan to rendezvous with you came together pretty fast, boss. We looked at some maps but they weren't very helpful."

Ziva chipped in to help Tony out even as she continuously shifted on the rock above them, scanning the area through her scope in a steady 360 degree swivel. "We did not have access to accurate surveys of the area, Gibbs," she said. "This land has been under Calera family control for generations. Detailed topographical maps, if they exist, have never been released to the public. Satellite imagery revealed almost nothing but tree canopy. That is why we were forced to bring a guide with personal knowledge of the terrain."

Gibbs considered his agents for a moment before turning cool eyes to Gray. The boy seemed to feel it, and raised his head.

"You speak English?"

His agents glanced at Gibbs sharply. Tony thought Gibbs would assume Gray was Colombian, a local, now that it was clear he wasn't from the camp. It would've been one more illusion to disabuse the boss of.

But Gibbs must have noticed at some point that the kid understood what they were saying. Gray just looked back at Gibbs, letting his silence answer for him.

"Where'd they dig you up?"

"Clifton Park," Gray said calmly.

The kid was . . . calm. Tony relaxed minutely, even as he felt Gibbs looking at him, confused.

"Ah. Well," Tony cleared his throat and braced himself. "That's in DC, boss."

The confusion shifted, and fast, to disbelief. And then anger.

Okay, so maybe he'd thought Gray was a local recruit after all.

Tony decided to go ahead and get it all out there. Gibbs didn't like that they'd brought a kid into this. He was going to like the fact that Gray was basically pimped out by the CIA even less.

"We were introduced by Kort."

"Kort? _Trent_ Kort?"

"Yeah." Tony tried not to flinch. Angry Gibbs had leaned in and was now two inches from his face, at most. "Kort seems to be his . . . handler."

"His _handler_?"

When the boss started repeating words back to you it meant he was about to go nuclear. Tony drew back, preparing to duck and cover.

But the kid stepped in.

"First he's my daddy, now he's my handler? Sounds kind of dirty, Tony."

They turned from their argument to face him and watched the boy's lips quirk up into a small, lascivious smile. It was beyond disturbing.

Gray rose to his feet, a cascade of water running down his legs, and started to walk into the trees. "We need to keep moving."

"Where's the pickup?" Gibbs demanded.

Gray turned back and seemed to look him over. "Where I signal for it. I'm heading for the southwest border. Should be three days."

Southwest . . . Tony and Ziva stiffened as they realized they weren't going out the same way they came in.

Gray glanced at them, then back at Gibbs.

"Come with me or not," he said. "I don't give a fuck." He turned and faded instantly into the murky light.

Gibbs set his jaw and motioned for Ziva and Tony to follow.

**x**

The rain burned off eventually and steam began to rise from their bodies, even their clothes sweating in the humid air.

As the sun began to set and the shadows grew longer Tony felt true exhaustion settle into his bones. His limbs didn't seem connected to his body as well as they should be. His joints ached and his chest felt tight. Sharp pain dug into his shoulders where the weight from his pack strained against the muscles in his back, and his damp feet were rubbed raw.

He tried to move smoothly, quietly, but his boots slipped on the wet leaves and he began to stumble more and more often. In front of him Ziva was doing the same.

Gray never looked back to check on them as he had on the way in. He never hesitated over the route. Tony shut down the signals his body was sending him and pushed forward, step by step, breath by breath.

As the shadows became impenetrable Gray paused for a few seconds to pull out night vision and then pressed on, the agents behind him doing the same. Tony had the impression he was following a machine – steady and indifferent. A body immune to fatigue.

It had been dark for hours when Gray began to slow. They were winding their way into rougher terrain, the vegetation thick and the ground treacherously uneven. It became difficult for Tony and Gibbs to fit their bodies through the breaks in the stubby trees, and they'd skidded down countless wet rocks in the dark, almost spraining ankles too often to think about.

Finally Gray crouched and waited for the rest of them to close in. He held up his palm to signal they should stay where they were and then slipped away through the trees. They waited in silence, listening to the ceaseless nighttime rustling of animals and the unpleasant complaints of their own bodies.

Twenty long minutes passed before Gray reappeared, motioning for them to follow. A few minutes on they approached a hill. Gray stopped beside a narrow crevice disappearing into the steep slope and motioned for Tony to walk forward, into the pitch black shadow. Tony stared at the crevice and then at Gray.

He shoved the image of the Abby spider out of his mind and, gritting his teeth, walked forward.

After the first step he could see absolutely nothing, even with the night vision. He held his rifle vertically in front of him to make sure he wouldn't jam the barrel into rock if he walked into one. The ground beneath him sloped downward and the walls pressed in. The barrel of his gun scraped against stone. He hunched over to keep his head from hitting rock.

Gradually the walls to his sides narrowed, and he had to turn his shoulders to fit as he kept moving blindly forward.

A few more steps and the walls on either side of Tony disappeared. He felt the ground beneath his feet even out. He continued into the space tentatively, giving Ziva and Gibbs room to follow him in. The soft scrapes of their footsteps were incredibly loud in the total black.

There was a long grinding noise behind him and Tony froze, eyes blinking uselessly.

"Lose the night vision." Gray's quiet voice echoed around them and Tony heard the distinctive scritch of a match being struck. He closed his eyes and pulled the goggles up over his head. When he opened them again he was standing in warm yellow light.

They were in some sort of cavern. It was maybe twenty feet deep, ten wide and high, rough gray stone closing in overhead and a packed dirt floor under their feet. A wide wooden door had been dragged across the small entrance. It looked like the stone around the mouth of the cavern was chipped away once upon a time, to mould exactly to that door.

The fit would keep any light from escaping. Anyone passing on the outside wouldn't know they were there. Tony felt his shoulders relax fully for the first time in days. That simply security felt like five star luxury.

He ran tired eyes over the space, automatically checking for snakes and spiders, and ended up staring at a dusty pallet of water bottles and stack of canned food that sat in one corner.

Gray set a glowing metal lantern on the floor in the middle of the space and retreated to the back of the cavern. As the agents watched he shucked his pack, pulled off his boots and socks, and wedged his body against the wall. Just as his eyes closed he spoke, voice hoarse.

"Four hours. Turn out the light."

"No watch?" Ziva asked.

"Can hear . . . " He fell asleep mid-sentence.

Gibbs propped his gun up on the right wall and motioned Tony and Ziva to take the left, so that the agents flanked the entrance. When they'd taken off their packs and removed their boots Gibbs crouched down and extinguished the lantern. A moment later they heard the whisper of laces, and then they knew no more.

**x**

Gibbs woke to a faint mechanical click.

He opened his eyes and followed a weak beam of light moving across the floor. It was Gray's flashlight, followed by Gray himself. Gibbs spoke when the kid set a hand on the door.

"Hey."

Gibbs raised his head as Gray glanced back at him.

"Back in an hour," the boy said calmly.

The light clicked off. There was a scrape, another, and then nothing.

Tony had opened his eyes in time to see the light fade, and now kept them open in the nothingness of the cavern. He looked toward the spot where Gibbs lay, just a few feet away.

It was the pitch black that made Tony brave. And the fatigue. When he spoke his voice was quiet but sure. "We had to come, boss, and he was the only way."

A minute passed in total silence.

"You two know what he's doing?"

It wasn't a concession, or forgiveness. It was refocusing the conversation to something Gibbs deemed more useful at the moment.

"No," Ziva said. "But this is not the first time the boy has gone off on his own."

"He took a few field trips on the way in," Tony this time. "Never gone more than an hour."

They were silent as Gibbs pondered that.

"Kort say why he offered him up?"

"He claimed the Agency needs intel on Londono and the Calera cartel. Said the CIA wanted to know what you know, since you've been an official guest."

"And you buy that?"

"Don't know, boss," Tony said, mock serious. "Have you been attending cartel board meetings during your stay at beautiful Camp Six?"

Oh, Gibbs was definitely pissed at his agents. He was beyond pissed. For the risks they'd taken to get here. For involving that kid.

And yet – he grinned faintly into the safe dark, where no one could see.

It was selfish. But when it wasn't scaring the hell out of him, it was nice to no longer be alone.

He figured the hunger and exhaustion were making him a little giddy. "Nope, didn't get quite that far up the ladder, Dinozzo. Whatever Kort's after it isn't my information." Gibbs paused. "And I doubt that kid just snuck out for fun."

"You think that Gray is scouting the cartel's territory for the CIA?" Ziva mused. "It is possible. Kort said most of the area is impenetrable to satellites. And the Rangers based nearby do not enter Calera land."

"Don't know what he's doing," Gibbs grunted. "But everything I have on the Caleras is fifteen years old, and about dirtbags who are already dead. What do you know about the kid – name's Gray? First name?"

The agents were silent for a beat.

"He has gray eyes, boss," Tony said finally. "I'm guessing that's the source of the name. We don't have anything real on him. Abby did a facial recognition search, got nothing. He's probably too young to be in the system anyway, or too close to the CIA. We tried to get fingerprints off him but the kid was onto it."

Gibbs ran a hand over his face.

Tony hesitated, then went ahead and said what Gibbs must already realize. "He may live in DC now, but Gray knows his way around the neighborhood. At least a few of the Rangers at the base we flew out of recognized him. He must have . . ." Tony really didn't want to say he must have lived at that camp. Or worked there. He'd go for vague. " . . . been at that camp at some point."

They were quiet.

"If Kort does not want Gibbs for his information, then why send Gray into the camp after him?" Ziva asked. "If the CIA is simply after information there are safer ways than a rescue mission to get it, both for any intelligence gathered and for the boy."

A lot of questions, and no answers to be found here.

"Rest while you can," Gibbs said. "We'll deal with Kort when we get home."

_Home_.

Tony and Ziva were tired, and stuck in a strange world. They closed their eyes and fell gratefully into the familiar, effortless security that Gibbs somehow always gave them.

If that security seemed a little darker now than it had just a few days ago, it was no less solid. _When we get home_, he'd said. We'll get home, that meant.

They dozed until Gray returned.

* * *

><p><em><strong>an**__: T__hank you to __**secondlaw**__ for helping me polish this chapter's Spanish phrases. Gracias!_

_No quieres tu arma?: You don't want your weapon?_

_Más seguro sin ella: Safer without it._


	20. Patrol

**Chapter 20: Patrol**

By mid-afternoon of the following day they'd dropped significantly in altitude. The air was warmer, the terrain less punishing than yesterday's.

They'd been moving along a shallow sort of trench. It looked like the ancient bed of a stream, dried up long ago, with a steep hill rising on their right side and a less drastic slope on their left. The canopy was thinner over the trench and dappled green and yellow light made its way down to them. The sun finally dried their clothes, still damp from yesterday's rain.

Tony's first clue that something was off was Gray. He froze ahead of them, his hand up.

Ziva and Tony stopped in turn. Tony could hear his heart, thumping over the shush of a million leaves whispering against their neighbors. He looked around, searching for the threat, waiting for Gray to lead them in some sort of retreat, like he did when they came across cartel forces on their way in.

But Gray didn't motion them to move anywhere. He turned back to look at them, eyes narrow, and stood that way for a long moment. Then he ran into the brush up the bank to their left and was gone.

Tony started to move left too, checking over his shoulder to make sure the others had seen where to go. But Gibbs was standing still, looking up to the right. Ziva was just turning to do the same.

Tony followed Gibbs' line of sight and finally saw them. Eight rifles at the top of the bank, pointed down at them.

For a second everything was frozen in that green-yellow light, the patrol looking down at them, the team looking up. Outgunned from above, Tony thought. Fish in a barrel.

Three of the men above them peeled off from the group and made their way down the slope. One ran into the brush after Gray, the other two positioned themselves on either end of the agents. Then the rest of the rifles slid down into the trench, encircling them. They were all dressed like Gibbs, in dark, gray-green fatigues.

One of them barked "Sus armas!" and three of the riflemen moved to stand behind the agents, pressing guns into their backs. Three more moved to stand in front and started stripping off the agents' rifles and packs, tossing them together in a pile.

Ziva and Gibbs said nothing. Tony kept silent too, even though it was killing him. He could understand and speak Spanish well enough but his accent was a gringo's. One word out of his mouth and he would be pegged as an American, if he wasn't already.

The man in front of Tony reached up and ran his hands roughly through his hair, around his collar, and then dipped into every shirt pocket. Hands brushed over the front and back of his undershirt, yanked the sweaty t-shirt up out of his pants, ran over every inch of his chest and back and up and down his arms.

The guy who had gone into the trees after Gray came back alone. He spoke to the leader in Spanish that Tony couldn't follow.

Tony glanced to his right. Ziva's baggy long sleeve jacket had been tossed to the ground. The man in front of her had his hands up under her army green t-shirt, searching as roughly and thoroughly as Tony's guard had just searched him. She stood impassively, no emotion on her face.

Gibbs eyes moved from Ziva and locked onto Tony's.

The younger agent nodded. They would suck it up, play it smart. They would wait for an opportunity.

Hands dipped into his pants pockets and then the holster at the small of his back, pulling out his knife and backup pistol. They went into the pile. The man removed Tony's belt and found the second knife hidden there, and then plunged inside his underwear to move around his crotch.

Tony didn't think about where those hands were. He studied the men in front of him. The soldiers were silent, alert, clean-shaven. Clean in general, actually. Tony was suddenly aware of how he smelled, sweaty and moldy and damp, like a swamp. The soldiers' fatigues were regular and the M4 assault rifles they carried looked spit-polished. One of them had what looked like a disassembled machine gun strapped to his back.

When the hands reached his ankles Tony was knocked to the ground from behind. The searcher in front of him examined his boots and then started unlacing them. To his right he could see Ziva and Gibbs getting the same treatment.

He let his eyes slide briefly over Ziva's blank face.

His boots were removed, searched, tossed in the pile. Finally a set of arms gripped him under the shoulders and hauled him back to his feet. His hands were secured behind his back with what felt like a zip tie.

The man who had given the initial order busied himself digging through Tony and Ziva's packs, sifting through the ammunition and medical kits carefully. Then he studied the pile of weapons taken off the three of them.

When the search was over he moved to stand in front of Tony.

"¿Quién eres tu?"

Tony looked down at him. He was pleased to have a good three inches on the guy.

A fist whipped out and backhanded him across the face.

"Who are you?" the man asked mildly. His accent was . . . Tony could admit that it was pretty good.

The fist came out again, smashing his cheek into his teeth and his head back toward his shoulder. This time he fell. The rifle standing behind him hauled him back to his feet.

Tony turned his head to spit out the blood filling his mouth. He straightened back up to give the prick an _I couldn't care less_ stare.

The leader looked him over and smiled a little, a knowing grin, like he had guessed all of Tony's secrets. Then he walked toward Ziva.

Tony followed him with his eyes.

"¿Quién eres tu?"

She looked at him as if she were watching some distant figure on TV, no expression, no reaction. Like he was something far away. Like he couldn't hurt her.

The leader nodded to the rifle next to him and the man swung forward, ramming the butt of his weapon into her stomach.

Ziva doubled over, chest heaving, totally silent. She was hauled upright by the rifle standing behind her.

The leader reached up and ran a finger down a pale cheek. Down her sweaty neck.

"You do not want to tell me who you are?"

Now Ziva looked like _she_ was somewhere faraway, where nothing real could touch her. Not even the mercenary standing in front of her, standing too close, staring down into her face. His hand reached out to ghost over her matted hair, tug gently on a stray curl. Anyone watching would have sworn she wasn't even aware that he was there.

Tony swallowed, trying not to look too much like he cared.

The leader released the curl he had wrapped around his finger, smiled at her, and turned away, toward Gibbs.

At that point Tony tried not to sag too obviously in relief.

The leader ran his eyes over the crusty scrape running down the side of Gibbs' face, something probably left over from the kidnapping. The fatigue jacket had been pulled off, but he reached out to finger the black t-shirt Gibbs wore. It was the same as the one the patrolmen had on under their jackets.

"¿Quieres decirme quién eres tu?"

Gibbs looked at him silently, just as the rest of them had.

"¿No?"

The rifle in front of Gibbs muttered something into the leader's ear. The man cocked his head to listen, then stepped forward and lifted Gibbs' shirt.

There were welts there, a ladder of raw red and black-purple lines running up his stomach. The rifle behind Gibbs seized his shoulder and wrenched him around. His back was the same. Maybe worse.

Tony couldn't help staring at it. A voice in the back of his head whispered to be cool, to be blank - not to look like he cared -

The shirt dropped back down and the leader scrutinized Gibbs' empty face, then moved away. He spoke to machine gun guy for a minute and then the two made their way back up the steep slope.

Two of the rifles followed. Gibbs was prodded up the slope next, then Ziva, and finally Tony. It took some doing without their boots and their hands tied behind their backs. Tony was still a little dizzy from that last punch, and when he slipped to his knees he was seized under the arm and dragged up the last few feet.

The final two rifles appeared at the top of the slope carrying the agents' packs and weapons on top of their own.

The soldiers set off through the trees, the agents arranged single-file in the middle of the group. Tony's socks were soaked and his blisters on fire within the first two minutes. It wasn't until half an hour later that they came to a thin track winding through the trees, a camo green truck sitting in the middle of if. The patrolmen shoved them onto benches running along the sides of the truck bed and secured the ties holding their hands to an iron railing running along the back of the bench.

The engine roared to life and they began to lurch down the track, gripping the iron pipe as they rolled over the rough ground, the truck pitching like a boat in high seas.

It was absurd, but somewhere down under the fear Tony's legs were screaming relief, and a Pavlovian part of his brain was thankful to once again be moving, as he generally preferred, with the help of a motor. He'd never been much for hiking.

* * *

><p><em>This week's Spanish:<em>

_sus armas: your weapons_

_¿Quién eres tu?: Who are you?_

_¿Quieres decirme quién eres tu?: You want to tell me who you are?_


	21. MTAC Oh Noes

**Chapter 21: MTAC - Oh Noes**

"Oh fuck. Timmy . . ."

McGee's head shot up. "What? S'wrong?"

He looked to the massive screen in front of him and studied it, blinking the sleep away, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Oh . . . fuck.

"I'll call Vance."

Abby nodded, still riveted to the image. Three blinking red dots moved steadily in one direction. The little blue patch was a ways off, moving in another.

They no longer had the live feed, so they'd once again matched the GPS signals to old, static photographs of Calera land. Kort's mysterious satellite had moved out of range of the agents after Gibbs made his escape from the camp. It didn't really matter, since all a picture of people moving through a jungle showed was the tops of trees anyway.

And the locators were all they needed to see that something had just gone seriously wrong.

McGee got the director's assistant and was patched through right away.

"Director, we have a . . . situation. Gray's separated from the team."

McGee could almost hear Vance frowning through the phone. "I thought that was happening periodically, McGee."

"Yes sir, but Tony and Ziva - when the guide wasn't with them they were stationary. They're all moving now, sir, and in different directions."

"Where?"

"Still almost forty miles from the border, director."

There was silence for a moment. "Call Kort, get him in here. Let me know when he arrives."

Kort left MTAC the day before at about four in the morning, when the dots and the blue cloud were motionless for fifteen minutes straight.

"They've stopped for the night," he'd said. And then, in that bored voice that sounded like he didn't really care, "I would appreciate it if you kept me informed."

But then the CIA agent stopped to check that McGee had his cell phone number. Like he really did care.

McGee didn't have to tell Kort that the director wanted him to come in. As soon as the situation was described the CIA agent interrupted to say he would be there in twenty. Twenty minutes later Kort and Vance stood next to McGee, eyes following the divergent paths marked out on the screen.

Abby looked up from her laptop, talking fast. "Gibbs and Tony and Ziva - well, taking minute variations in altitude into account they're averaging eleven miles an hour. That's almost three times as fast as the fastest they moved before they seperated."

McGee nodded. Vance and Kort looked blank.

"They're in a vehicle!" Abby's gaze bounced back and forth between the two men, trying to figure out if this was good or bad. Hoping for good in spite of the crushing probability of bad.

Vance glanced at Kort. "Any chance they've been picked up by someone friendly?"

Kort kept his eyes on the screen. "No."

"What will it take to get the Rangers at that base out after them?"

"Nothing," Kort said. "They won't be sent into Calera land for any reason."

Vance set his jaw, frustration radiating out from his stiff shoulders. There was a _we'll see about that_ tilt to his chin. "I'll be in my office, talking to Sec Nav." _To put pressure on the Agency,_ went unsaid. _And to put you, Kort, up shit's creek_.

Because it was all Kort's plan. Kort's doing that Vance had not just one but three of his best agents down there. Gibbs and Dinozzo and David - they were _his_ people. If this all went to hell then Kort would damn well pay -

The director was up the stairs and almost to the door when the CIA agent's voice rang out, a harsh command in the quiet room. "Wait."

Vance turned and looked at him, but Kort was still staring at the screen.

"He's going after them," he said.

He did not sound happy.

McGee frowned. "The kid? Gray is moving in the opposite – "

"He's in the river." Kort's hand swept in an arc against the screen. "Close in on his signature . . . there."

And it was true. The blue patch was moving through a smooth black band that mirrored Kort's sweep.

Abby frowned and bent over her computer, typing furiously. She hadn't calculated the blue cloud's velocity, she'd been concentrating on the red dots -

"The vehicle will be on a track - " The CIA agent walked closer to the screen, his pointer finger following what might have been a slight depression in the tree canopy, one that stretched up from the current location of the red dots, fading in and out of the unrelenting jungle. It looked like a hundred other vague depressions all around it. But Kort's finger followed this one up to the top of the screen.

"Pull out. More . . . here." The depression in the trees and the black band of river met up, the faint shadow that Kort seemed to think was a road following along the shore of the water for a bit before pulling back into the trees. "He's going to cut them off. _Damn_."


	22. Night

**Chapter 22: Night**

They rode in the truck for hours, the steady engine marking time while bored, capable soldiers watched both their captives and the terrain. The Calera men tracked every shift and movement suspiciously, both in and out of the truck.

The path they were following wasn't really a road, and certainly wasn't wide enough for the tree canopy overhead to break, but it was roughly maintained. Muddy stretches were laid with planks. Fallen trees had been sawn up and dragged out of the way.

Just before dusk the truck slowed to a stop and two of the men sitting in the back hopped out. They shouldered packs and moved to the front, exchanged a few words with the leader sitting shotgun, then walked off. The truck rumbled on without them.

The three agents exchanged a look. Six soldiers now. Two to one.

They passed through dense trees for awhile and then into more open grassland. Finally, as twilight fell, the truck slowed and the engine quit.

The agents remained trussed up where they were, two guards watching them nonetheless, while the other men pulled packs from the truck.

They'd stopped in a wide sloped clearing with trees on all sides. All but two of the Calera men took off, leaving the truck behind as they carried gear toward the stand of trees downhill, disappearing onto a narrow trail.

The agents waited for the mistake that would give them an advantage.

It never came.

After a few minutes two of the soldiers returned from the trail and stood at a distance, covering the closer set of guards as they grabbed Gibbs, released his hands, and pulled him from the truck. Even if Gibbs could overpower the two guards closest to him the reserve set stood well back, rifles at the ready, in a perfect position to kill him if he tried anything.

Gibbs didn't try anything.

He was walked a few feet away from the truck and stopped. One of the guards gestured crudely in front of him with one hand, the other hand still secure on the trigger of his rifle. _If you want to piss . . ._

Gibbs had wanted to piss for hours. After he'd zipped up again a canteen was taken from Tony's pack, sniffed, and then tossed to him. He drank a third of what was there and capped it just as it was snatched away.

The guard closest to him seized hold of an arm and hauled Gibbs to the side of the truck, shoving him down to the ground on his knees. His arms were corded together again, then drawn up and secured above his head on one of the low outer railings that fenced in the truck bed. His legs were pulled out in front of him and tied together as well.

The guards stepped back and performed the same procedure with Tony, securing him a few feet down from Gibbs.

When he was trussed up Tony looked back for Ziva, just in time to see her socked feet hit the ground at the end of the truck. He craned his neck to follow as she was walked off to pee . . . averted his eyes from that specific bit . . . then her feet approached again. She drank the last of the canteen . . .

Finally he could see more than her feet – she was shoved down to kneel in the dirt just as he had been, and her hands drawn over her head. They tied her to the end of the truck while Gibbs and Tony were on the side.

Three of the soldiers muttered something to the fourth and then walked away, toward the trail where the others had disappeared. Their one remaining guard leaned against a tree several yards off, relaxed but watchful as he lit a cigarette.

Tony tested the cord holding his arms to the truck. It was depressingly solid. He looked at Gibbs, tied a few feet off to the side, and raised his eyebrows. Were they going to stay mute?

Gibbs broke the silence. "They get everything off you?"

Tony wondered where Gibbs thought he might have been able to hide a weapon in that search. Under his tongue? Up his ass?

"Yeah, you?"

"Yeah."

Tony turned his head toward the end of the truck. Night was falling in earnest now, and he could just make out the dark shape that must be Ziva's back and shoulders. "Ziva? Alright?" he whispered.

Her shoulders moved slightly, maybe as she turned her head toward his voice.

"Yes. You?"

"Oh yeah," Tony said easily. "We're good."

She snorted.

They lapsed into heavy silence, listening and watching, trying to get a read on their environment. On anything in it they might be able to use. They would be moved again in the morning, there might be an opportunity then . . .

Eventually Ziva spoke, voice firm and steady as a barely-there whisper could possibly be. "Tony, Gibbs. Stay quiet if they come for me. I may be able to get a weapon off of one of them. It will be our best chance."

If they come for . . . Tony looked quickly to Gibbs.

But the boss was still, his head down.

Tony's mind groped for something, anything. But there was nothing to say that wasn't useless. Or worse, a lie.

Ten minutes passed in silence, or maybe it was an hour – Tony couldn't get a sense of the time. He felt dizzy, a cocktail of adrenalin and exhaustion pulling his body in opposite directions.

It was entirely dark except for a low moon, their only source of light, when Gibbs shifted beside him.

"Rest while you can, Dinozzo," he said flatly.

Tony was going to make a sarcastic protest. There was something pointy and sharp from the truck digging into his shoulders. His arms were tingling with blood loss and the plastic cord securing his wrists to the truck bit into his skin. He was starving, hadn't taken any pain relievers in far too many hours, and his legs were cramping. He stank of sweat and swampy river water, actually itched with how dirty he was. That in itself wasn't so bad, but by morning the bug repellant was sure to wear off and Tony was equally sure that the three of them would be eaten alive.

And he was only thinking about all of that because he couldn't think about Ziva.

But before he could say anything about the impossibility of falling asleep his eyes were sliding shut and his head was falling to the side, resting on his shoulder, and he couldn't remember what he'd wanted to say because he was falling.

**x**

When he woke the moon was high, his body instantly tense. Tony could sense Gibbs awake and alert beside him, and he scanned the trees for whatever had brought him back to awareness.

A shadow emerged from the trail and walked forward slowly, lazily, stopping next to their guard. The guard got to his feet and stretched and the two men stood there for a minute, talking in low voices and smoking, the orange glow from their cigarettes the only color in the black and silver night. The new man let his cigarette fall to the ground, stepping on it with his boot and walking closer to the truck.

Tony could smell whatever he'd had for dinner. Something with onions.

His senses were hyper. Everything in the moonlit night was crystal clear, every drift of air like sandpaper on his skin. The guard's soft footsteps fell like grenades, his own heart thumped like some internal earthquake. Out of the corner of his eye Tony saw Gibbs drawing himself up, craning his neck to keep his eyes on the guard, just like Tony, as he rounded the corner of the truck and stopped in front of Ziva.

He stood in front of her for a long, tense moment. Then he stepped well back and set his rifle on the ground, a faintly metallic brush against grass. The other guard moved in a bit closer, his own weapon resting secure and ready in two hands.

Tony twisted his body to look under the truck again. He could make out the black shape of the second guard as he crouched next to Ziva, leaning in. He was murmuring to her, too low for Tony to make out any of the words, or even the language.

Tony twisted back around and silently pulled down with all his strength on the cord securing his hands. It there was any weakness in the bonds, now seemed like a really good time to find it. He glanced frantically toward Gibbs and saw him doing the same, the solid body beside him lifting off the ground as he used his weight to pull down on the cord wrapped around his hands. But the ties binding their wrists to the railing were strong. The body of the truck creaked, actually rocked toward them a bit, but nothing gave.

Tony's breathing was speeding up and he took a moment to focus, to force it to slow down. His first lesson as a cop – panic is useless. He needed to think.

Ziva was strong, she would make a move. This could be their chance. He and Gibbs just needed to be ready, like she'd said . . . breathe, and listen, be ready . . .

There was rustling and more murmuring. Tony twisted back to peer under the truck again. Her hands were still secured, but it looked like her legs were no longer tied together. He couldn't see the guard anymore . . .

The guard wasn't visible because he was on her.

There was a quick, sudden movement from Ziva's body. She'd used the leverage of her legs and flung herself forward, as far as arms tied to the truck let her go. A meaty smack and a pained grunt from the guard followed. She'd head-butted him? Or used a knee?

The man standing watch a few yards off laughed.

A moment later there was the sound of a fist connecting solidly with flesh, and a _thunk_ as Ziva's head snapped back to hit the truck. Tony stared at her still form.

And then the murmuring started again, but sharp this time. Fingers were visible against the back of her dark shirt, moving, pulling her body forward, shoving the cloth up. The skin of her back was exposed, pale against the dark background of night. Tony's eyes were burning, but he could see her body leave the ground an inch or two as it was pulled out hard from the truck. The hands were at her hips, jerking down her pants.

She wasn't struggling anymore. How hard had her head hit the truck? It was possible she was unconscious – it was possible -

Tony twisted forward again. He was panting softly, gasping for air. _  
><em>

He couldn't watch, couldn't sit there – he couldn't. He pulled out with all his strength on the cord holding his arms, flinging himself into it. Beside him he felt Gibbs doing the same. The chassis of the truck actually swayed with them, but the bonds held firm. Tony rested for a moment, when he ran out of air, and then tried again. And again.

He almost missed it.

A soft thump from the direction of the standing guard.

The guard grunted, very quiet, but it drew Tony's eyes. The man's mouth opened and moved slightly. The expression on his face was weird - stiff and slack at the same time.

Hope shot up in Tony's chest. Maybe the guard would come to them. Try to stop them from pulling against the truck.

Tony surged again against the ties.

If he could lure that guard close he would rip out his throat with his teeth - drive his head into his face, punch his nose into his brain - strangle him with his knees, crush his neck -

Tony watched, still pulling against the bonds at his wrists, breathless and confused as the guard crumpled forward. The dull clatter of the rifle strap as he fell onto his gun was like thunder.

A shape emerged from the darkness behind him, a black streak. It was already jumping over the body.

The guard on top of Ziva had heard his friend collapse, turned his head. He scrambled off her, lunging back for his weapon. But Ziva's legs snapped out, a ninja blur. She caught him at the knee, brought him crashing down.

He rolled away, was up again - scrambling, the rifle -

He didn't reach it.

The dark figure slammed into the guard and the two bodies crashed to the ground.

It was Gray. The boy was on top of the guard only for a moment before he was flipped, almost flung up into the air before the man below him twisted and slammed the smaller body down into the dirt.

It was all over in seconds. But as Tony watched, time seemed to slow. The guard opened his mouth and gathered breath to yell something toward the camp. If the others heard - Gray drew his knees up and punched his legs into the man's gut, drove the air from his lungs.

The guard grunted and fell viciously forward, pulling his arms in, driving his elbows into Gray's body with huge force. The guard held the stunned boy down, a thick forearm across his chest as his other hand reached for his waist. A blade flashed in his hand.

"Knife!" Gibbs hissed even as Gray's body jerked to the side. But not far enough. The knife plunged down into his shirt and Gray shrieked. The night seemed to freeze and trap the thin scream, like an endless stutter in a nightmare.

The guard sat up to draw the knife back, lifting his weight to stab again. Gathering it up for the killing blow. Gray's body instantly filled the free space, curling up into itself, a hand straining down past his knees. Toward his boot.

Tony caught a quick gleam of metal there. And then Gray's hand was too fast to see. But he had seen the boy's arm move like that before.

It whipped forward and up, drawing along the guard's body. The blade gouged deep through the gut, skittered up over the ribcage, flayed the chest to the bone - ripped a path from hip to shoulder. The dead man reared back, knife in his own hand forgotten, and screamed horribly. A dark spray of blood covered them both, gleaming like black oil in the moonlight.

Gray's hand shot out again, the blade now slashing across the man's throat, cutting off the scream. Another black spray, and a silent wash of blood. The body fell heavily forward, pushing Gray back to the ground. He rolled the weight and staggering to his feet, snatched up the dead man's rifle and was moving, running up the slope. Heading for the black shadow of the tree line at the far end of the clearing.

There was no way that death scream hadn't reached the camp.

All three agents found their breath at the same time and yelled after him. "Four!"

Gray was feet from the trees when two guards emerged from the trail to the camp. They fired instantly, muzzles flashing bright, but Gray had flown into the brush and was gone. The guards sprayed the trees with automatic fire and ran forward, wood splintering to pieces as bullets chewed up the cover. They fired for long seconds, paused, then fired again. One man held up a fist and there was silence.

The guards never stopped moving, sticking close to the trees as they skirted the clearing, heading rapidly, silently toward the point where Gray had disappeared. The agents peered into the dark, holding their breaths.

"Come on," Tony whispered. "Come on, kid." There was no sound or movement from the shredded patch of vegetation where Gray was hiding. Or maybe dying.

The guards were more than halfway there when two shots rang out, one after the other in less than a second, a tell-tale rifle flash well to the left of where they had concentrated their automatic fire.

Gibbs watched the heads snap back, the black forms of the guards fall.

Tony scanned the shadows where the flash gave away Gray's position, but saw nothing. The agents looked back toward the trail that led to the camp. Nothing there either.

Had he heard them say there were four? If Gray revealed himself now, came out to the truck to free them, he would be a sitting duck. On the other hand he was still outnumbered, and now the other guards knew he was out there. Either the two remaining men at the camp were waiting for him to show himself or they were already hunting him, stalking through the trees.

Minutes crawled by in total silence.

Tony glanced at Gibbs. The man was sitting forward, his eyes wide and staring into the trees toward the camp, his head cocked.

Gibbs could feel his agent's eyes on him. "He's going after them," he breathed. Tony nodded, and they waited. Ten minutes, and then a shot from the camp. Several minutes later another one, fainter this time. And then silence.

They stared at the trail. Five minutes, ten. Fifteen minutes passed - an eternity. And then Gray appeared, walking up the trail from the camp.

He went to the slain guards at the far end of the clearing first, hovering over them for a moment, reaching out to check for life. Then he moved toward the truck with something in his hand.

He paused next to the first guard that had fallen, set a foot on his back to hold the body still and tugged out the knife buried between the shoulders. He wiped the dark blade carefully on the dead man's clothing, matter-of-fact and surreal, like some gruesome figure from a nightmare. When it gleamed silver again he turned once more to the truck.

The agents were silent as he walked toward Ziva. Tony held his breath, listening for her.

It was one of the guard's shirts in Gray's other hand.

Tony twisted and looked under the truck again when the kid got close, watching as the black drape of the jacket dropped over what he could see of Ziva's pale body. Gray crouched beside her a moment later. In the utter silence Tony heard the rasp of a blade against plastic cords. Ziva's arms fell to the ground beside her.

Gray placed the knife in her hand, stood and stepped away. His boots were loud as he jumped into the truck bed. And his voice seemed loud too, when he finally spoke.

"Have to move the truck and get out of here. We're too visible from the air."

Ziva rolled forward. Tony turned away after he'd seen that she'd climbed to her feet.

She appeared a long minute later, her clothing straightened, hair smoothed and pulled firmly back, the long jacket Gray had given her buttoned over her t-shirt. It was one of the guard's camo jackets.

She crouched next to Tony, examining his wrists, raising the knife to saw through the plastic ties. Above them Gray moved around busily in the truck, tossing things out and to the ground where Ziva had just been tied up.

"Alright, Zee?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "Now. You?"

"Yeah." He searched her face, but she looked calm, purposeful. She was gentle as she pulled the ties away from his wrists, blood flowing down his forearms as she peeled the plastic out of his skin.

"That will need stitches," she observed. Tony groaned as she lowered his arms down to his sides. The cuts didn't really hurt, but the muscles in his shoulders shrieked in protest. His numb fingers began to tingle unpleasantly.

"Yeah," he said stupidly, and raised a clumsy hand to touch her shoulder. She hadn't looked him in the eye. "Zee - "

She pulled back before he got close, slicing through the ties around his ankles in one movement, and then turned to Gibbs.

Tony knew he was staring. He just couldn't gather the will to stop.

He pushed to his feet when Gray dropped down out of the truck. The kid didn't even glance their way as he moved toward the front of the vehicle. The engine revved a moment later and Ziva pulled Gibbs out of the way just in time. Gray drove it down the slope, leaving the clearing and the rough track behind, crashing directly into the jungle. Somehow he avoided the bigger trees, rolling down toward the river. The truck was hidden by foliage almost instantly, no longer visible when they heard the engine cut.

Apparently they weren't driving out of here.

Tony pulled his eyes away from his partner long enough to look at the pile of gear that Gray had tossed to the ground. It was _their_ gear, Ziva and Tony's boots and Gibbs' battered, sturdy work shoes on top. He sank down next to his pack, pulling on fresh socks and then his boots gratefully. Gibbs and Ziva did the same.

By the time they'd laced up and begun rearming themselves the sick feeling that the last twelve hours had left was just starting to fade.

When Gray reappeared his own pack was slung over his shoulders again. He must have dumped it in the trees before attacking that first guard. He climbed the slope toward them steadily, but a little slower than he had moved since they'd first set eyes on him back in DC. Tony ran his eyes over Gray's body. He'd been sure that the guard's knife connected, but the jacket was dark and the moon was setting, its light slowly fading. Tony couldn't see anything obviously wrong.

Gray paused next to the agents and Tony stepped forward, reaching a hand out toward his shoulder, leaning down to get a better look at his torso. "Hey, you – "

He didn't sense the movement, just felt the cold metal hit the bottom of his jaw, the snick of his teeth as they slammed together. A pistol pressed up into his throat.

"I told you," Gray said. "Don't touch me."

Gibbs and Ziva had been crouched over, sorting out the gear into three piles. They froze, hands midair.

Tony swallowed and held carefully still. "Sorry. Wanted to see if you were hurt."

Gray didn't blink. Tony saw for the first time that the boy's face was mottled with blood, almost covered in it. There was no obvious head wound – it must have been the guard's.

"Touch me again," he said, "and I'll kill you." He leaned in slightly, flat eyes staring up into Tony's, roaming slowly over the agent's face. "What's one more?"

His voice was so calm, so very soft. Wondering. Tony could only stare back, about as horrified as he'd ever been. The metal barrel pressed firmly into his windpipe, and he just stood there, and waited. Sanity would return or he would die like those guards.

They stood like that for long seconds. And then the gun pulled away.

Gray backed up several steps, still fixed on Tony. Finally he turned sharply, toward the far end of the clearing, where the two guards that had fallen close to the trees lay. The pistol in his hand returned smoothly to the holster at his back. "They have to be moved out of the open," Gray said, voice faint, and walked away.

Ziva glanced quickly at Gibbs and Tony and moved to follow. "I will help him with those."

Tony ignored the lingering tremble in his hands as he and Gibbs each seized a set of arms and began dragging the guards by the truck toward the closest trees. Tony had the one whose gut had been cut open. As he hauled it away a great dark smear of blood stretched after the body, shining wetly against the grass.

He'd worked around a lot of dead bodies. But he'd never hauled one around. It was heavy, the hands still warm, and the head jerked unnaturally as it dragged and bounced over the rough ground.

Tony turned away from it, focusing on Gibbs' back instead as they closed in on the trees. Gibbs stopped when they were about fifteen feet into the brush. Tony hauled his guard up, so the corpse lay next to the one Gibbs had moved, and dropped the arms he held.

As he turned to walk back to the clearing Tony glanced down at the body one last time.

He hadn't realized the guard's pants were undone, but they must have been. They'd pulled down as he dragged the dead man over the ground, exposing him.

Something slammed up into his throat. Shame, or horror, it didn't matter. His stomach twisted like a vise and bitter fluid shot out of his mouth and nose. He choked up water and bile, finally gagging hard on nothing at all.

When it was over and his breath was back he spit and wiped his watery eyes, but the acid in his nose only brought more tears. He gagged and spit again, ignoring the man standing silently next to him. He couldn't look at him.

When his breathing was under control and his face was dry he straightened and headed back to the clearing. Gibbs followed without a word.

Ziva and Gray were waiting for them, Gray's form more shapeless than ever under one of the guard's fatigue jackets. His night vision dangled from one hand and an extra pack sat at his feet. He gestured at the bag and looked at Gibbs. "Can you carry this?"

From the tone of the question, he knew what he was asking.

Gibbs tilted the bag and looked inside. Several canteens of water, dark green MRE packets, and a pile of ammunition for the M4s that Gibbs and Tony now carried. Supplies from the guards' camp.

Gibbs slung the pack onto his shoulders without comment. Tony watched, numb, but the man didn't even flinch as it landed on his ripped up back.

Gibbs nodded back toward the trail. "What about the others?"

"I put them in the river." Gray turned toward the trees and began moving up the slope, away from the camp and the track the truck had been following.

They crossed the clearing one last time and finally left it behind.

**x**

They stopped briefly at dawn. Tony and Gibbs cleaned and properly wrapped up the cuts on their wrists. Ziva let Gibbs take her head in his hands and examine the lump growing out of the back of her skull. She held still, tense, as he peered into her pupils, checking responses with a flashlight.

After Gibbs moved away from her Ziva still wouldn't look at him. But she held out a hand to where he sat. Tony reached out and grasped it, unspeakable relief flooding him. He squeezed gently and she squeezed back, and they sat there together for a few silent, good minutes.

Gray casually moved away when any of them approached. But they watched as he bent down over a stream and splashed the worst of the blood from his face and hair, the movements of his arms stiff and slow.

At midday they crossed another deep river and stopped to rest on the other side. Tony finally exchanged a look with Ziva as Gray pulled a foil packet of antibiotics from his pack and swallowed them down with an energy bar. It was the first time they'd seen him take any pills.

As twilight fell Gray was still moving smoothly, but stopping more often, ten second breaks to catch his breath before moving on. A dark stain appeared at his side and began to spread.

They moved through dusk for an hour before darkness wrapped around them again. Finally Gray sagged against a tree and slid to his knees, breathing carefully, face actually gray with exhaustion. The agents gathered silently around him, holding off a respectful distance in deference to the pistol he carried – Tony back farthest of all.

They took out canteens and their night vision quietly. After a moment Gray did the same, hands pulling at the zipper on his pack sluggishly.

Gibbs had watched him closely all day, but said nothing. Now he followed every movement like a hawk.

"You're bleeding," he noted, nodding to the wet stain on the bulky jacket.

Gray followed Gibbs' gaze down to the blood. He set his canteen on the ground without comment and dug back into his pack, pulling out a roll of gauze. He reached under his jacket and began winding it around his ribs. After many passes he tore the gauze with his teeth and tied it off blind, hands slow but confident under his shirt.

Gibbs waited, watching silently, until the boy was still again. "You need to rest." _  
><em>

Gray didn't say anything. He sipped slowly from his canteen, then stuffed it in his bag and started to climb to his feet.

"Hey." Gibbs didn't reach out and grab him, as he would have an agent. But his body leaned forward, and his voice was short.

Ziva and Tony watched closely, eyes on the kid's hands.

Gray paused and finally looked Gibbs in the eye. "Not yet."

"How much longer, tonight?"

Gray hauled himself the rest of the way to his feet. "Two hours."

"Want me to take that?" Gibbs nodded toward Gray's pack as he stood.

"No." Gray slung the straps of the bag over his shoulders and walked into the trees. The agents followed grimly.

It was more than two hours before Gray gestured to them to wait and moved ahead, then came back a few minutes later, signaling to follow. He led them to a deep rocky overhang. At one end the earth had been built up to meet the rock, forming a sort of cave. It wasn't as secure as the cavern, but still a lot better than sleeping in the open.

In the deepest shelter of the overhang Gray dropped his pack and leaned against the rock, sliding to the ground in a controlled collapse. He pulled the pistol from the holster at his back and cradled it in front of him.

"Four hours," he said, his eyes closing.

Still sitting up. He was going to sleep like that.

Tony glanced at Gibbs and Ziva and then toward the mouth of the makeshift cave. The rock of the overhang farther down curved forward, blocking the entrance to anyone who wasn't close and standing right in front of it. "Safe to turn on a flashlight here, Gray?"

"Yeah."

Tony dug in his pack and clicked on the light as Gibbs touched Ziva's shoulder and nodded toward the back of the cave. She pulled an identical flashlight and the medical kit out from her own pack and approached Gray slowly.

Gibbs stepped back toward the mouth of the cave, checking his rifle and looking out at the night, away from the the pair of them. Tony followed, his flashlight still pointing back into the shelter, giving Ziva more light.

She crouched a few feet away from Gray and spoke quietly, but her voice carried in the rocky space. "Your wound needs to be dressed."

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her. "I did."

"It will be better if you let someone do it for you," she said.

Gibbs and Tony gave up the pretense and looked back to watch. Gray was staring at Ziva's face, mesmerized by her. Totally absorbed, just as he had been back at the park in DC, on that first day he'd seen her.

There was silence, and then he lifted his hands and fumbled open the buttons on his jacket. She helped him to open the shirt and then cut away the stained gauze that wrapped tightly around his abdomen, right over his t-shirt. Finally she pulling up the ripped undershirt, the cloth stiff with blood and sticking to the flesh. He didn't make a sound as she pulled it away.

Once the cut was exposed Ziva used a wipe from the medical kit to clean the worst of the crusted blood away, looking at the wound closely. The cut started shallow in the middle of his stomach and then gouged up into his side. He had moved out of the way of the blade just in time, the guard's knife slicing him deeply as he dodged it.

"This was close," she said evenly. "I'd like to disinfect the cut, though it will hurt. Is that alright?"

Gray nodded. She picked up the plastic bottle of peroxide in one hand and rested a hand against his chest with the other. When he didn't protest she pressed firmly down to hold him still and tipped the bottle over the wound.

He jerked, and a high moan broke from him before he cut it off. Beside Tony Gibbs went rigid, jaw clenched as he watched the boy pant.

"That is the worst of it," Ziva said, working quickly to wrap the cut again. When it was clean and tightly bound she sat back. "Do you want to keep the t-shirt?" Apparently he did. She pulled it back down and then closed the jacket over it.

"Is any of the other blood yours?"

He murmured something too low to hear from where Tony stood. "You are welcome," Ziva said quietly. And then, "I owe you far more. Rest now." She pulled his upper body away from the wall and lowered him down to the ground.

He reached out a hand and brought the pistol with him.


	23. Delirium

**Chapter 23: Delirium**

Four and a half hours later Gibbs sat up. Tony and Ziva shifted and did the same. Light was creeping in from the mouth of the overhang. Dawn.

Gibbs staggered to his feet and moved stiffly toward the gray day, crooking a finger at his agents to follow. They stood close together at the edge of the shelter, sharing a canteen of water mixed with some of the MRE powder taken off the patrol. Tony thought it tasted like Tang - chemicals, sugar, a vaguely fruity bouquet. Whatever it was it took the edge off, chasing down far more prescription ibuprofen than made up a recommended dose.

"Not so sure about waking him." Tony's voice was barely there. "He didn't sleep right."

Gibbs nodded. The boy had been restless in the night, and once they'd been woken by faint noises of distress. Gibbs had whispered for Ziva, but the sounds stopped before she got to her feet.

"He needs rest, but he also needs medical attention," Ziva said. "That cut is deep and infection is already setting in. Oral antibiotics are not enough."

Gibbs rubbed a hand over his face.

"That patrol didn't know who we were," Tony said carefully. "That make any sense to you?"

Gibbs' eyes locked with his. "No."

"Maybe the fire damaged more than the labs."

"Maybe," Gibbs said quietly, looking toward Gray.

"We have not come across as many patrols coming out as we did going in," Ziva said. "I thought there would be more. And searches from the air."

Gibbs nodded. "Wake him up. Whatever's keeping the cartel at bay won't last forever."

Gray woke as she approached. He rose wordlessly and reached into his pack, skipping any breakfast but following his usual morning routine of toothpaste and mouthwash. The agents ate most of the remaining meal bars, and they were moving again.

By noon Gray was pale and sweating and still hadn't eaten since the night before. Tony couldn't imagine it - with constant movement over rough terrain they were burning through calories like fire through gasoline.

When they stopped for a break Gibbs crouched in front of him without preamble, Tony and Ziva hovering at his side. "You got something for that fever?"

Gray nodded, careless. "Took it."

"Take another one." Gibbs held out one of the extra-strength ibuprofen.

Gray squinted at it. "What is that?"

"It suppresses fever," Gibbs said shortly. "Take it."

Gray swallowed it down with gatorade from his canteen.

"How far to the border?" Tony asked.

"Five, six hours. They drove you closer, you know." Gray's tired eyes swept over them and closed. "Lucky bastards."

They stared at him, then glanced at each other. That was a lot of unnecessary words. For this kid, anyway.

If the fever was making him talkative . . .

Tony tried it out. "Speaking of, how did you catch up with us?"

Gray squinted up at him. "I run cross-country." He rose to his feet, swaying in place. "Coach says I'm gonna make varsity." He laughed as if he'd said something hilarious. Not a laugh from his belly. It was high up – from his throat - a weird sound in the quiet. He turned away, still grinning, and continued leading them through the brush.

Ten minutes later he paused, put a hand on a tree, and coughed up a stream of blue gatorade. He pressed a hand against the spasms in his stomach and wiped his mouth, moving on before the agents had even reached him.

Hours passed before they stopped once more, at the base of a hill. Gray had started to climb it, swayed, and dropped to his knees. He blinked as Ziva moved quickly to him, smiling at her darkly - amused, apparently, by his own deteriorating condition.

The agents hunkered down around him and watched as he pulled out a canteen and sipped from it. His face was flushed now instead of pale, hair plastered to his head with sweat.

"How far, Gray?" Gibbs asked.

"Few hours."

"Abby and McGee will be following our locators, Kort too probably," Tony said quickly. "If we're that close to the border they might send in our ride early."

"Rangers don't come onto family land," Gray countered. "Won't pick us up till they get the signal."

"Send the signal," Tony said promptly.

Gray sipped slowly from the canteen, mocking the urgency in Tony's voice, in his eyes. "No."

Tony ran a hand through his hair. Kort had refused to share any information on how the signal would be sent. It was clear that the pick-up was for Gray. If the NCIS agents wanted to ride along they'd have to play by Kort's rules – and make sure the kid stayed safe.

"Gray, Pete and Rodge are your friends. If they knew you were hurt they'd come for you."

Gray shook his head and shoved his canteen into his pack.

"Jesus, kid. They're _Rangers_. They're not going to care about the risk, not if we're that close."

Gray climbed to his feet. The waver of the fever was gone, the voice hard as he leaned toward Tony. His face looked thin, his cheeks still smooth as Ziva's. "I call when it's safe," he said. "That's the deal."

There was a long pause, and then Gibbs broke the tension. "Safety first. Don't suppose you want a job?" His gaze drifted over Tony and Ziva. "I might have an opening for an agent. Or two."

Gray turned, started up the hill again. "You got minors on the payroll at NCIS?"

Gibbs waved at his agents to follow. "About that. Exactly how far are you from being legal?"

"Doesn't matter," Gray's cool voice floated back, already choppy, short of breath. "You can't afford me."

Late that afternoon they crossed a shallow river, hiked through thick growth for another hour, and stopped at the crown of a low hill. They had a view over the trees they'd just come through and a clearing up ahead that might have once been a field. Gray dropped his pack to the ground and followed it down, easing his pistol forward again to rest across his knees. He propped the pack against a tree and leaned back against it, eyes sliding closed.

"We're here," he said. And then, faintly, "Keep a watch."

"Hey, hold on," Tony hunkered down into a crouch. "We're where? Past the border?"

"Yeah, border's the river." Gray's hand waved back the way they'd come. "Should be safe but . . ." he hitched a breath and trailed off, hand pressed tight into his side. When he spoke again his voice was steady. "But they're looking for us. I think."

"So," Ziva said, "You have sent the signal?"

"Not till it's dark."

Tony actually gripped his head in his hands.

Gray looked at him. "Only a couple hours."

Gibbs accepted that silently and turned away, walking a bare minimum security perimeter around the hilltop. Ziva sank to her knees and swung her pack around to dig through it. "I had a commander in Mossad like you, Gray," she said tiredly. "We all hated him. Here," she held out her hand, a tiny white pill in her palm. "Try again. Don't drink so much with it this time."

He opened his eyes, grasping at the pill clumsily.

"But we loved this commander too. We used to argue, when we were bored, about whether we hated him or loved him more. It changed by day."

She paused, nudging him in the knee. "Try to stay awake."

Gray somehow cleared his throat without moving any of his upper body. "What's Mossad?"

Ziva watched him swallow the tablet and dug through her bag for the bug repellant. She smeared it over her face and hands and then did the same for Gray, telegraphing her movements to avoid startling him. The chemical scent of the cream mixed into days' worth of dirt, blood, and stink that encased them both. She passed the bottle to Tony and turned around, sitting in front of Gray and swinging her rifle forward to sweep the area through her scope.

"Mossad is like the CIA where I am from," she explained. "You would make a good operative."

A few feet away Gibbs and Tony had finished with the repellant and also pulled their guns forward, scanning through their scopes, sitting around Gray in a circle.

"Where you're from. With the Hebrew."

"Yes. Israel."

Gray cleared his throat again. "Fuck that. The CIA sucks."

The three agents grinned down the sights of their rifles. "Couldn't agree more," Tony muttered.

They were quiet, and Gray's head began to nod forward. "That's true about commanders, though," Gibbs said, voice slow and steady as the movement of his scope. "The good ones. Had a captain in the Corps like that. Complete hardass, pushed us to the limit."

Apparently the kid's fever was enough to make the boss talkative too. Tony and Ziva almost perked up, they were listening so hard. Gibbs smiled, adjusting the lens of his scope. He didn't mention much about his past - but of course, nothing else would make it so interesting to the young investigators he worked with. "Then he'd turn around and keep us safe as he could," he continued. "Men loved him and hated him just about the same. Guess you're officer material, Gray."

There was silence. Then, "Know you're a Marine. Read your file." And with quiet precision, "Fuck the Marines, too."

Tony raised his eyebrows._  
><em>

"Oh yeah?" Gibbs was grinning, they could hear it. "Want to be a Ranger, huh?"

"No." The kid laughed softly. But it wasn't a funny laugh, or even that other cold one. It was low, raw. "I hate this shit."

Tony gripped the rifle in his hands and stared hard into the trees.

"So what do you want to be?" Gibbs' voice was kind, his scope still moving steadily.

Before, Gibbs had been a shade too nice, sure. But not _really_ nice. He'd spoken to Gray like a colleague, or a favored liaison from some other agency. The kind voice, that was the way he talked to kids. Hurt kids. Scared kids.

"Got to get there first," Gray said tonelessly.

Tony glanced back when he coughed, watched as Gray leaned to the side and retched up blue water.

He felt a sudden crush of helplessness. Of responsibility, and looming failure.

If this was what it felt like to be a parent he definitely didn't have the balls. No wonder his own father ran in the opposite direction. No wonder Gibbs lost it when Kelly died.

Gray reached for the canteen beside him to rinse and spit, then leaned back and closed his eyes. But not before his gaze slid past Tony's, and lingered there. Just for a moment.

It was strange - his eyes were so calm.

Tony turned back to his gun.

"You'll get there," Gibbs said. "Hey. Stay awake."

"Didn't take you for an optimist," Gray said clearly, if slowly. "From what Kort said."

"Kort doesn't know me." Gibbs' voice was mild, but there was steel there, under it.

"That so?" The tone was idle, knowing. Just a little amused.

He was _teasing_ Gibbs.

Ziva coughed. Tony didn't bother to hold back a snicker.

Gibbs' voice was as dry as they'd ever heard it. "Think I'm gonna take back that job offer."

"Good," Gray said. "You can stuff your job offer."

"Hey," Tony said. "I'm with you on the military, but being a cop is a good gig."

"Yeah," sarcastic. "This is great." A sharp breath and the three of them glanced back. Gray's jaw was clenched, hand twisted in the fabric covering his wound. He relaxed by degrees, breath shallow.

Tony raised an eyebrow as he turned back to his scope. _Well, that's a waste of a cop. Tough and a damn good shot, too. _Maybe not the best thing to bring up the day after the kid killed six men, though. The first time Tony'd killed someone . . .

And that guy that'd been after Ziva, he wasn't just killed - the kid had _butchered_ him, basically -

Gibbs, as ever, was not shy. "You're a good shot."

Gray didn't respond.

They were quiet for a moment. The shadows were lengthening and Tony checked his watch. Just after 1930. Half an hour more and it would be dusk, almost dark.

"I think a job that does not involve getting into fights or being shot at would be very sensible," Ziva spoke up. "Perhaps I will explore a second career with you, Gray."

"Hey," Gibbs objected.

"Gibbs has already retired from NCIS once, so he could not possibly have anything to say against it," Ziva continued blithely.

"What'd you do when you retired?" Gray's voice was heavy with fatigue.

"Sat on a beach."

"Huh. Sounds good."

"He built hot tubs, actually," Ziva said. "Teak ones."

"I wanna retire with Gibbs," Gray mumbled.

"You've supposed to have a career first, before you retire," Gibbs said. "Unless you're counting your current gig with the CIA? That pay well enough to let you hang up your hat at . . . what, fourteen?"

Judging by his voice, Gray thought Gibbs' observation was funny. "I think this is called fishing. Are you fishing for information, Agent Gibbs?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said bluntly.

"Huh. And I heard you were . . . good . . . " Gray's voice trailed off, then found its way back. " . . . at reading people."

Gibbs frowned. That didn't sound like Kort.

"What're you gonna do for second career, Ziva?" the kid asked.

"I think I would like to be a dancer. And you?"

Quiet. Gibbs reached back and grabbed Gray's foot, giving it a little shake.

"You wrapped that wound well," Ziva said. "You could be a doctor."

"Sick people?" Gray coughed from his throat, continued on sort of dreamily. "And twelve years of school. That's the alternative to the getting-shot-at job?"

Tony smiled despite himself. The kid was funny when he was delirious.

"Dancing's good though. I think teaching . . . be cool. All the kids sucking up to you. And there's recess. Dodgeball. Kickball. Um . . . tether ball. Be good."

Ziva gripped her rifle tight and then forced her fingers to relax, cursing the Reynosas for starting it all. For bringing them here. "Yes," she echoed. "That does sound good."

"Summers off," Tony pointed out. "Not a bad plan."

"Are you going to join us in our second careers, Tony?" Ziva smiled even as she tracked movement through her scope. Something fast . . . she followed rustling through the trees until a gorgeous pale bird broke out of the canopy and climbed into the sky.

"Hey, I'm already on my second career," Tony said. "I was a basketball player in my first life."

"Buckeyes."

Tony frowned, looked back over his shoulder. "How'd you know that?"

"Read your file," Gray said easily, eyes still closed. "Third career then, for _Tony_. I'm seeing . . . a coach. Plenty of elementary schools recruiting, you know."

"Hey," Gibbs broke in. "Leave me a few agents, would you?"

"No worries, Gibbs." Tony reached around blindly to pull the very last power bar out of his pack and began unwrapping it with his teeth, one hand still on his gun. "Just because the kid here wants to be a teacher and surround himself with yet more kids doesn't mean I want to be overrun with kids."

"I think I'm insulted," the kid said.

_He's too good at this_, Gibbs thought. The banter. The agents did it out of habit, to keep themselves and the civilian in their midst calm.

The civilian didn't usually banter back. Particularly not_ this_ civilian. He'd barely put two words together in the past three days. Unless -

Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

Tony had let up on sending the signal early. Ziva was reassured that Gray was surviving, if not exactly in glowing health . . . and . . . fine. Gibbs was reassured too.

Was it all down to the fever? But Gibbs didn't think that Gray was delirious, just . . . loose.

Was the kid calming _them_? Managing his agents?

Gibbs shook his head. "Nobody's retiring until I say so."

Tony was puzzling things out. Kort gave Gray their files? If so, either the files were incredibly patchy or Gray was playing them, not letting on to what he knew. Now was clearly the time to ask. Kid was much more informative when he was only borderline lucid.

"Hey, Gray. You knew I played for the Buckeyes but not that Ziva is from Israel?"

"Kort didn't want to give me what he has on Ziva." Gray let a little of his curiosity come through. "Said her official file was real short anyway."

Gibbs frowned. That was . . . interesting. For one thing, Gray hadn't answered the question. But he _had_ redirected interest, back to Ziva. And it was a question for Ziva that started the conversation, wasn't it? _What's Mossad_, he'd asked.

Gray kept the fact that he'd read their files to himself until the last few hours of the mission. Why bring it up now? Gibbs could think of only one reason. He was fishing for information, too. From _them_. But what exactly was he trying to ferret out? The CIA probably knew more about Ziva's life before NCIS than Gibbs himself did. If what the kid said was true, Kort was deliberately keeping her past quiet.

Which meant there was something in her background that Kort was willing to conceal. Kort didn't hand out favors like that from the kindness of his heart. Whatever this was, it would be a liability.

There was a long pause. Ziva's chance to fill in the blank, to explain. But the blank only stretched out, getting weightier as the seconds passed.

"Think your career at Mossad's been classified, Ziva," Gibbs finally said.

"It would seem so," she agreed, voice easy, distant.

Gibbs eyes narrowed once more at the dodge.

Tony checked his watch again, rolling his eyes at the endless Mossad intrigue. Here in Colombia it was 19:45 and they were so close to home he could taste it, but it still wouldn't be totally dark for almost an hour.

There was shuffling behind them. "Going to call," Gray said. "Then we have to move fast. Caleras can track the phone."

They shouldered their packs and watched as Gray pulled a compass and a slim black cell out of his bag. He climbed to his feet and turned the phone on, punched in a number, waited for a beep, and turned it off. He studied the compass for a second.

Then he headed out, skirting the edge of the clearing, checking the compass every few minutes. Somehow he was moving fast, as promised.

They travelled directly south. Twenty minutes later Gray paused, breathing ragged, leaning into his side. He turned the phone on again and punched another number in, waiting to hear a tone on the other end before turning it off.

The kid was sending their coordinates back to the base then, and in some sort of pattern. Their movements were the code, verifying the authenticity of the signal.

It was growing dark quickly now and they pulled out their night vision, Gray still checking the glowing points of the compass every few minutes, the three agents scanning the trees with their scopes.

At one point Gray stopped and the agents paused, assuming he was calling again, or getting his bearings. But he put a hand on the trunk of a tree and sank abruptly to one knee.

Tony was closest and reached out, unthinking, to grab him before he could topple over. The kid was wet with sweat, body hot even through his clothes.

Tony held his breath, hoping he wasn't about to get shot.

Gray climbed slowly back to his feet.

"Will they pick us up here, Smoky?" Tony asked casually. "Or do we have to move again?"

"Yeah," Gray whispered. "Have to move." He bent close to the compass, reading it. "That way," he gestured in front of them. Still due south.

"Alright." Tony slung an arm around Gray's waist and pulled him south.

Twenty minutes later Gray called again. Then he checked the compass and turned west.

"Zag," he said.

Tony, breathing hard now, dutifully hauled him in the new direction, Gibbs and Ziva flanking them.

They were still moving rapidly forward when the whir of a helicopter could be heard, faint in the distance. A minute later the bird roared in close and Gray flipped on the phone one last time. They ducked their heads as the Black Hawk touched down not forty feet away.

Tony and Ziva grabbed Gray by either shoulder and ran forward, hoisting him into the belly of the chopper. A hand reached out to grab him and they flung themselves in after, Gibbs following on their heels. The machine lifted off the ground instantly, climbing high and fast.

The agents slumped, panting, against the humming walls.

They'd made it.


	24. Status

**Chapter 24: Status**

Pete peered at Gray's face as they rose into the sky, shining a penlight into glassy eyes. Someone else must have been in the copilot's seat.

Ziva lurched toward him, snatching up one of the headsets secured to the wall and speaking into it. "Gray is wounded, he needs a medic."

"That's me," Pete said calmly. "What happened?"

"Stabbed in the abdomen, forty-eight hours ago. It is deep but did not appear to hit anything vital. He developed a fever and became weak. He may be dehydrated, he has been vomiting."

Pete nodded, hands busy, face calm as he stuck Gray with an IV and began pumping fluids into him. He shouted something into Gray's ear and the boy closed his eyes, slipping into unconsciousness.

Pete gestured for a hand and Tony helped him lift Gray onto a stretcher. The medic cut away the fatigue jacket and t-shirt, but on inspecting the gauze around the wound left it alone. He checked Gray's vitals once more and glanced up at the agents strapped into the opposite wall of the chopper, watching him closely. He spoke into the headset to Ziva. "You three okay?"

Ziva nodded.

The flight back to the base took almost an hour. The pilot - Rodge again - radioed ahead and as they touched down four men came out to meet them, each grabbing a corner of the stretcher and ferrying it into the closest building. The NCIS agents grabbed their gear and followed.

Gray was transferred to a bed in a spartan infirmary, the gauze covering the wound finally cut away to reveal the open gash across his stomach. The skin around it was irritated, inflamed. Infected.

They stood back in the hall and watched, Gibbs and Ziva absolutely still, Tony's hands flexing.

Infection could lead to sepsis. Fatal sepsis. Tony wasn't sure he could handle it.

If the kid died, for _them_ -

Gray's body convulsed.

"Gray." Pete put a hand out to still his shoulder. "You with us?"

Gray jerked away, and then he started to scream.

"Hold him." Pete turned away, striding to a cupboard full of supplies. The men who'd carried the stretcher seized Gray's arms and legs and held his body to the bed. Gray panted for breath and cried out again in Spanish.

Outside the room the NCIS agents were joined by a tense, silent Rodge.

Pete returned to the bed, needle and a clear plastic bottle in one hand. He grabbed the IV, running his fingers down the line, and abandoned it a second later. Gray had dislodged it.

Pete loaded the needle anyway and spoke to the man next to him. "Keep him still."

The wiry man standing by Gray's head bore down on his shoulder with one hand and on the elbow closest to Pete with the other. Gray went berserk, twisting under the weight of the men holding him, hysteria lifting the rest of his body up off the bed.

Pete braced his free hand on Gray's forearm and struck quickly, the plunger depressed and the sharp object withdrawn in less than a second. The men pressing his limbs into the bed seemed to hold their breath. To the agents watching it seemed like a long time, but couldn't have been more than ten seconds before Gray slumped back, limp and unconscious.

The men around him relaxed.

"Cade, help me clean out this cut and stitch it up, will you? Thanks guys." Pete nodded to the others and they slipped out of the room.

His eyes followed them out, landing on Rodge and the agents standing stiffly outside the door. He stepped into the hallway to speak to them but paused before he did so, looking them over carefully. They'd backed up to lean against the opposite wall, faces stony.

All three were still upright, but they looked like hell.

"You guys sure you're okay?"

"We are fine." Ziva nodded toward the infirmary. "How is he?"

"He was hallucinating a minute ago, that was brought on by the fever. I've given him something to bring his temperature down along with a cocktail of drugs to fight the infection. But there's nothing to indicate that it's spread into his bloodstream. He's exhausted and dehydrated and probably lost a significant amount of blood over the past twenty-four hours. The wound itself is deep but otherwise not serious."

He waited for any other questions, but the four of them just continued to stare at him.

"I think we caught it in time," Pete explained. "He should be fine."

And they finally, subtly relaxed. Tony looked Pete over, frowning a little. "Shouldn't we get him to a hospital? And a doctor?"

Pete shrugged. "We almost certainly have everything here that we could possibly need to treat him, as well as the advantage of security, which we would lose in a hospital. Besides," he smiled. "I am a doctor."

Tony blinked at the man.

"You should grab showers and a change of clothes," Pete said, turning away. "You're next."

But they stood there and watched Pete and Cade clean Gray up, moving gently over the limp form while Rodge parked himself on the next bed over. Then one of the men who'd helped to carry the stretcher reappeared, carrying towels and soap, fresh t-shirts, fatigue pants and socks.

Tony and Gibbs sat at the door of the shower room while Ziva went in. When she emerged they took their turn cleaning up and she returned to the infirmary to sit with Gray. The light in the room had been shut off but the hall light was enough to see by. Rodge was the only one there now, lounging on the next bed over from Gray. He was flipping through a sports magazine, looking at the pictures in the dim light.

Ziva walked forward and put a hand on Gray's forehead. It was a little warmer than it should be, she thought, but not burning or sweaty as it had been earlier. She sat down on a chair next to his bed to wait, shivering in the room's air-conditioning after six days in the humid jungle. She pulled up one of the spare bed's blankets and wrapped it around herself.

Pete came in with Gibbs and Tony a few minutes later, both freshly scrubbed and bearing trays of food.

"Status?" Gibbs nodded at Gray. The three of them inhaled soup and sandwiches, watching as Pete checked over Gray and informed them that the fever was already down.

When the trays were empty Pete jerked his head at Rodge. The man slid off the bed and sauntered out of the room. Pete turned on the bright overhead light and shut the door.

"Alright. Here's what we need to do," Pete said. "Your people in Washington have been informed of your safe return. They're waiting for a call from you, when you're ready. We have a video link prepped."

They gathered themselves to stand. "Hold up," Pete said firmly. "You're not ready until I say you are. First I'm going to clean each and every cut and scrape you got out there, no matter how minor. That's SOP for this base. Infections here are no joke," he nodded toward Gray.

"Second," Pete folded thick arms across his chest, "we know you were captured by a patrol on your way out and held for several hours."

Ziva and Tony glanced at each other. How exactly did they know that?

"So, before we bandage up all of your little boo-boos, I need to know if any of you are hiding more significant injuries." His eyes ran over Tony's bruised face, then Ziva's. "Now is the time to address them."

There was silence for a moment, then Gibbs stood. "Dinozzo, with me." He turned to Pete. "I'd like you to interview Agent David privately."

Ziva raised a hand even as Tony slid to his feet. Her eyes were still on Gray. "There is no need, Gibbs."

Gibbs looked at her, face neutral as he studied hers.

She raised her chin and met his gaze with her own. "Gray came before it went that far."

Pete watched the exchange carefully. "Agent David," he said slowly, "You're likely to be on this base for several more days." The agents looked at him in surprise, and not a little dismay, and he suppressed a smile. "You'll have to ask your superiors about the reasons behind that, I'm just telling you what I've been told. But if you need medical treatment of any kind I need to know now. I won't exam you if you don't want me to. That's your choice. However, if you were sexually assaulted you'll need to begin a course of drugs to protect you from STDs. Immediately."

She shook her head and said again, calmly, "Gray came before it went that far."

Pete nodded. "Okay. What about Gray?"

The question hung in the air, and Ziva stared at the doctor. "What about him?"

"Is the knife wound all of it?"

"He struggled with a guard," Ziva said, thinking back. "He received a blow to the stomach before he was stabbed."

Pete nodded. "I noticed some abdominal bruising. Anything else?" he pressed. "Was he ever alone with them?"

Ziva frowned and shook her head, looking at Gibbs. "Not when he was with us. Gray was on his own in the camp for several hours . . ."

"I didn't see any evidence that he was attacked at the camp," Gibbs said, watching Pete.

Pete nodded again. "Alright, good. How about you guys?"

"Ziva was punched in the face and took a rifle butt to the stomach," Gibbs said promptly. "And she hit her head. On a truck. Dinozzo was punched in the face twice and has lacerations on both wrists. And their feet are a mess."

"How about you?"

Gibbs shrugged. "I'm fine."

He'd hold, anyway, until they were back home and Ducky could patch him up. Duck could be persuaded not to report it, and no report meant no psych eval -

But Ziva wasn't having any of it. "He was beaten with something," she said firmly. "The cuts on his back look infected."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at her. She met his calm stare with her own. Very slowly, he smiled. "I got some mosquito bites," he admitted. "Very itchy."

Ziva threw back her head and laughed.

"MOUSs. Mosquitoes of unusual size." Tony grinned and yawned. "Wielding straps or canes of some kind. Can we take a nap before we talk to Washington? I'm definitely feeling a nap."

The truth was his heart was too full to talk to Washington. Almost too full to speak at all. He wanted to crawl into bed and float into unconsciousness, just so that he could wake up tomorrow and check that this wasn't all a dream.

He'd got them back, somehow. They were safe.

"Okay," Pete said, already shuffling through the cupboard for supplies. "Whoever you are you've obviously been to the Ranger school of ignoring injuries. We'll go one at a time." He moved closer to Ziva. "Mind if I look at your head, Agent David?"

"No," she said. "But you should call me Ziva, Pete. I don't even know your last name. Or your rank," she suggested.

He smiled as he gently parted her hair and tilted her head toward the light. "Actually, you don't know my first name, either. And I don't have any rank. But Ziva it is."

An hour and a half later they were as patched up as Pete could get them. Ziva had been through a battery of tests to check for head injury. Tony had several stitches in his wrists. Gibbs was treated last, his back cleaned and stitched and, disgustingly, drained.

Tony and Ziva politely fell asleep on the infirmary beds while Pete worked on Gibbs. Neither of them really wanted to leave Gray.

Gibbs left all three of them to sleep as he followed Pete to a communications room and called home. He spent two minutes on a link with Vance, assuring him that the majority of his major crimes response team was still alive, and more or less intact. They set up a time to talk the following day, after both of them had slept. Then Gibbs was ushered into a dark room with a bed.

He collapsed, clean, fed, and safe for the first time in weeks, and let oblivion come.

* * *

><p><em>an: MOUSs (Mosquitoes of Unusual Size) are of course a reference to ROUSs, Rodents of Unusual Size, which of course were responsible for oh-my-dear Wesley's shoulder injury in 'The Princess Bride.'_


	25. Poker

**Chapter 25: Poker**

Gibbs woke eight beautiful hours later and stumbled to the restroom, admiring the reintroduction of running water to his life before heading to the infirmary to check on his people. Tony and Ziva were both right where he left them, sleeping peacefully.

Gray's bed was empty. Clear tubes leading up to two IVs were tangled in the sheets.

Gibbs frowned and set off to find him. The kid couldn't possible be well enough to be up and wandering around.

The base seemed to be a logistics and planning hub. There weren't many people around, but the ones he did see were busy, a mix of Americans and Colombians stuffed into bare bones conference rooms, frowning over maps and laptops. No one looked at him as he walked through the halls, or asked him where he was going. No one wore identifying uniforms or security badges as far as he could tell.

He found Pete and Rodge in a breezy open hanger, sitting with two other men at a table just out of the sun. They were playing cards, a pile of bills and coins collected in the middle of the table, and drinking beer.

It was just after noon.

"Busy day?"

Pete glanced up at him. "Guys in the communications room will set up the link to DC for you. Just ask."

Gibbs didn't say anything. He just stood there, looking over the cards on the table and the cooler of beer, then squinting into the sunny day.

"What do you want?" That was Rodge.

"Where's Gray?" Gibbs asked finally.

Pete's eyebrows went up as he studied his hand. "He left."

Gibbs frowned. They couldn't possibly mean . . . "Left?" he said sharply.

Pete laid down two cards and picked another two up off the pile. "He'll be back in time to catch a ride with you to DC."

Gibbs stared at the medic – doctor – whatever. "He was okay to leave?"

"Better than he was last night," Rodge growled.

"You'll have to excuse Rodge," Pete said. "He gets grumpy when Gray has a tummy ache. It's very mother hen but he can't seem to help himself. Gets it from his Jewish nana."

"You shut up about my nana. Trip kings," Rodge threw his cards down on the table. "What've you got?"

Pete slid his cards under the pile, face down.

Rodge smiled hugely. "Christ. How you managed to get even worse at poker I do not know." He glanced up at Gibbs. "Either pull up a chair and grab a beer or go away," he said. "You're standing in my sun. And your stress is infecting my vacation."

No telling how long these guys would be around. Or how much of the information Gibbs wanted they could provide. He pulled up a chair and fished a beer out of the cooler. "This is vacation?"

"It is now," Rodge said. "One more hand, gentlemen? I'm almost to my new flat screen."

Rodge began shuffling, but Pete snatched the deck back. "Give me those. You cheat like a whore." He snorted at Rodge's wounded look.

The other two men sat quietly, smiling patiently. They were both ripped, had an Abby worthy number of tattoos, and looked pleasantly drunk. Gibbs turned his attention to Rodge and Pete.

"Where did he go?"

The men exchanged glances. "Gibbs," Pete said, dealing the cards. "I can already tell that you're not very good at vacation."

Gibbs almost laughed. Mike Franks told him that pretty much every day in Mexico. "Nope, guess not," he said, taking a pull of his beer. It was fantastic. Fantastic to be drinking beer. Sitting on a chair, feeling the breeze. Fantastic to be alive. To be free.

It was almost a challenge to hold on to his anger at Dinozzo and David. Almost.

"Where Gray goes is Gray's business," Rodge said distractedly. Gibbs watched him work a card from the pocket of his pants into his sleeve.

Pete nodded. "And he will be fine. Don't suppose you play poker, Gibbs? I might be willing to exchange some information for a 65 inch flat screen."

Gibbs studied his beer. Dinozzo had called these men Gray's friends. Said they cared for him.

Tony didn't misread people. Not often anyway.

"I owe him. Just want to be sure he's alright," Gibbs said evenly.

"Oh, don't you worry about that," Rodge drawled. "Gray will collect. He's an excellent debt collector."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and Pete chuckled. "Now he's nervous. Don't be nervous, Gibbs." He flashed a little smile at the agent, held his arms out in some sort of triumphant gesture. "I mean, look at us. We survived."

All four of the men laughed hysterically.

At that moment the door on the other side of the hangar swept open and Dinozzo walked up, bending down to speak in Gibbs' ear. "Boss, got the director on the line in there."

Gibbs left the men to their game.

**x**

"Agent Gibbs, glad to see you're alright. Hope I didn't wake you up." Vance sure didn't sound like he cared whether he'd woken Gibbs up or not.

"Director."

Vance smiled. Gibbs was as irritable and, it seemed, indestructible as ever. It was good to see. "Dinozzo and David okay?"

"Yep."

Vance nodded and raised his eyebrows. "Kort spoke to _Gray_ earlier this morning. I understand you ran into some trouble on your way out of there."

Gibbs shifted in his seat. "You could say that," he paused and scratched his neck. "We owe the kid our lives, Leon. Guess I owe him twice."

Vance nodded. "Not something Kort is going to let you forget, believe me. I'm glad you and your team are alright, Gibbs. But I don't like how deeply the CIA's got you in its pocket right now."

Gibbs nodded. He couldn't agree more.

Vance studied his agent through the grainy feed. "I don't suppose you know why they stepped in to save your ass."

"Nope," Gibbs shook his head. "Though I really hope it doesn't involve being a mole in some Mexican prison."

Vance grinned in that way that reminded Gibbs of a sly wolf. "Well, I should let your lawyer tell you this. But I don't think you need to worry about Mexico. Not its prisons, anyway."

"Yeah? How's that?"

"The task force was able to tie your kidnapping to the Reynosa cartel, the same organization that provided the new evidence against you in the first place. Hart seems to think she can get it discounted by a grand jury now, arguing it was all a plant to get you down there."

Gibbs eyed Vance. The evidence against him was _overwhelming_.

"And that's going to exonerate me?"

"Hart seems to think so," Vance shrugged, face blank. "Now that it's clear this was all a ploy to attack an NCIS agent I had our legal team look into it as well. They agree."

Gibbs shook his head, feeling a little lightheaded. Mexico had been there, in the background . . . forever.

But apparently it didn't matter anymore.

"Okay . . . " He'd worked in law enforcement too long to really be surprised by anything a team of lawyers cooked up. They could twist the truth like a pipe cleaner. "When are we getting out of here, Leon?"

Vance looked down, as if he was reading notes on his desk. "Kort's arranged military transports back to DC for you. You're scheduled to leave the base you're currently at in three days."

Gibbs blinked. "_Three_ days? What the hell?"

Vance held up a hand. "I don't suppose you're aware that your team dosed Gray with an isotope to enable . . . some kind of radioactive tracking?"

Gibbs stared at him.

Vance nodded. "Kid refused a GPS locator and this was your team's solution. _Your_ locators can only be tracked by observers who have the PINs. The isotope isn't that discreet. Anyone monitoring Calera land for unusual signals could pick it up and follow it. Unlikely, but not totally out of the realm of possibility. It takes about eight days to be completely eliminated from the system."

Gibbs considered that. "Kort thinks they'd hunt Gray all the way to DC?"

"He does."

"And we're staying here with him, why? As punishment?"

"The official reason is your debriefing by the CIA. They want all of you in isolation until you're debriefed, and isolation is where you are now, essentially. There's also probably some punishment in there. Kort wasn't too pleased that we tracked his asset."

Vance and Gibbs looked at each other for a moment. "You think the cartel's already after Gray?" Gibbs asked. The kid definitely knew more about the Caleras than was healthy.

"I have no idea. You know more about him than I do. I'm pretty sure that _two_ cartels are going to be after you now, though, once they figure out you're alive."

"Yeah," Gibbs sighed.

"Get some rest while you're down there. You're going to need it. I'll see you in few days, Gibbs."

Gibbs couldn't see Vance's arms in the screen, but his shoulders moved, as if he was signaling. Half a second second later a black blur knocked the grinning director out of the camera view.

"Gibbs Gibbs!"

Gibbs smiled for real. "Hey Abs."

**x**

"_Three_ days?"

"Apparently the kid is leaking some . . ." Gibbs waved his fork and frowned. "Radioactive signal thing. And will be for three more days."

"Oh," Dinozzo winced. "Crap."

Gibbs helped himself to more of the spicy beef stew from the communal pot in the middle of the table. It was dinner time and whoever cooked for this base knew what they were doing.

"So . . ." Ziva ventured. "Kort knows about that."

"Gutsy," Gibbs eyed them, "or stupid, to light up Kort's pet like that."

"It was for his own safety," Ziva said firmly.

Gibbs swallowed what he wanted to say about the kid's safety. Now wasn't the time. "Yeah. Well, if we leave while he still glows in the dark the cartel could follow his movements in Colombia and figure out the flights. Maybe track him back to wherever he lives."

"Abby said that was unlikely. Extremely unlikely," Dinozzo protested.

Gibbs shrugged. "CIA's not going to risk it, and they want us together until we're debriefed. So . . ."

"Three days," Dinozzo said glumly.

Gibbs wasn't really feeling very charitable. Tony was damned lucky to be alive. "Cheer up, Dinozzo. Vance has McGee setting up a secure online archive of files for us. There'll be plenty to keep you entertained."

The two of them looked at him warily. Smart agents.

"Files?" Ziva ventured.

"Case files. Any activity in the DC area connected to the Calera cartel. They're active all over the states, but we might as well start local."

Tony considered him carefully. Ziva was the one who said it. "You think they'll come after you. In DC."

"Not sure," Gibbs allowed.

"But you're going after them anyway," Tony sighed, resigned to it. His job was to pull Gibbs out of the fire, and he'd won this round. But he couldn't really stop the boss from running right back in. Never had yet, anyway.

Gibbs shrugged and scraped his plate clean.

He walked a complete circuit of the base before turning in for the night. Gray hadn't returned.

**x**

The next morning Pete checked Tony and Gibbs' stitches and arranged an empty conference room for them, complete with three secure laptops and a huge carafe of coffee. They hunkered down and started reading.

"This is unbelievable," Ziva hissed. "How have they gotten away with it?"

The number of murders linked back to this particular gang had climbed sharply in the last decade. Low-level thugs were taken down for some of them, but no one high-up in the cartel had been solidly identified, much less touched by law enforcement. Not even for high-profile assassinations in Colombia.

"Kort said that the US and Colombia rely on Calera support in the Colombian civil war. As long as that war continues . . ." Tony trailed off.

"As long as that war continues no one is going to prosecute any of the real players in the drug business, not if they're supporting the war effort."

"Which is why the US didn't bother with the strictly legal approach the last time we took the Caleras down," Tony said, keeping a careful eye on Gibbs' reaction.

The boss ignored him.

"Kort said the CIA wants Gibbs for his information, but that does not make sense." Ziva picked up where Tony left off. "Perhaps they want Gibbs alive and in their debt because of his experience in . . . covert operations." _Assassinating drug lords._

Gibbs shook his head. "The CIA has plenty of experienced _operators_ on its payroll."

"A lot of agents in the FBI and CIA have lost their lives to this cartel. Why save Gibbs? Why now?" Tony was looking at Gibbs as if he already knew the answers to those questions.

"The Caleras have a personal vendetta against Gibbs," Ziva said slowly. "Revealed by the ballistics on the Hernandez case. It is likely they will come after you. "

Gibbs finally nodded. "That's got to be part of it. These dirtbags are politically covered. Kort's bypassing the chain of command to get to them."

"Huh. No need to get the kills approved," Tony said. "If Gibbs can connect attacks on him back to specific players in the Calera organization any action against those members of the cartel would be self-defense. And within our jurisdiction."

Particularly if the team set it up that way.

"Sneaky," Dinozzo concluded. And dangerous. If the Caleras attacked Gibbs first . . . the boss was right. In this case the best defense may be to have such a good offense they never even needed to put the defense into play.

"No one has been able to solidly connect the hit men hired by the Caleras back to the top of the organization," Ziva observed. "Or identify many of the killers. Not even for the influential political assassinations carried out in this country."

Gibbs continued to click through the file in front of him. "Not yet."

Ziva and Tony exchanged a glance and returned to their own files. Looking for connections.

Half an hour later Gibbs sat back to rest his eyes, ignoring the odd pull and prick of the stitches in his back. His agents were busy, bent over their computers, and he glanced from the top of Ziva's head to Dinozzo's before letting his gaze wander the windowless room.

He doubted they would find anything in those files, but they needed to exhaust old-fashioned investigative digging first. It was what usually worked in these kinds of murders, and life would be so much simpler if it worked in the Calera cases too. Usually hit men were found by a money trail - from the assassin to whoever ordered and paid for the hit. Neat. Easy. Very convenient for law enforcement.

But he wasn't sure there would be any money trail in these cases.

The kid's first kill in that clearing had been the knife, thrown at a run. Gibbs played it back in his mind again, for at least the thousandth time. A perfect hit, straight into the heart. If the kill hadn't been instant the alarm would have been raised.

But it was instant.

He'd managed to take out the second man almost without raising an alarm. In hand-to-hand fighting with an opponent twice his size. It was gruesome, but Gray had not hesitated.

If only the bastard hadn't screamed as he died. The kid could've freed Gibbs and the team. The agents would have taken care of the rest.

But it hadn't worked out like that.

Gray had been wounded and exposed, without the luxury of time to free his allies. Still he'd been able to think. To arm himself, run to cover, avoid fire, and return it. Two precision shots in rapid succession, at night with a stranger's rifle. Two perfect hits. Instant kills.

He'd hunted the remaining two, located and executed them. Apparently with accuracy, since only one round had been required for each.

And then the confusion with Tony. A hair trigger temper, vacant eyes and a steady hand.

Gibbs had seen that before, in other men. Gray had gone somewhere else for those few seconds, been sucked into some other nightmare.

_What's one more_, he'd said.

Tony had nearly died in that moment, Gibbs had no doubt.

And then, finally, the eerily efficient body clean-up.

What Gibbs had seen in Gray in that clearing wasn't luck, or determination, or even inherent skill. There was talent there, sure. If it could be called that. But there was also a lot of training. Experience. And the logic of warlords all over the world.

Why recruit an army, after all, when you can steal the enemy's children and make them into soldiers? Why hire hit men when you can raise them instead?

Gibbs stretched and went back to his files. They would exhaust other options first.

**x**

Gray reappeared that night. After dinner Gibbs and the others spotted him playing cards with the 'vacation' crew in the hangar. Gibbs paused on his way by to watch them for a moment, then headed to bed.

The next morning the agents gathered at 0730 for breakfast and found Gray sitting on his own in the mess. Gibbs put his plate and coffee down across from him. "Mind if I sit?"

Gray paused mid-chew and shook his head. They were quiet until Tony and Ziva got through the chow line and joined them. The agents ran their eyes over Gray. The fever looked to be gone. He seemed comfortable, no obvious pain.

"How are you feeling, Gray?" Ziva asked.

"Fine."

"Haven't seen you around," Gibbs said.

Gray reached for a bottle marked c_aliente_ in bold letters and dumped about half of its contents onto his eggs.

"I miss the fever already," Tony said, watching with concern. "You're much more . . . talkative when . . . . you sure you want all that . . . ?"

Gray chewed a mouthful of red eggs.

"Right. Well, like I was saying - " Tony peeled a banana and stuffed half of it into his mouth, talking comically around the food. "You're much more informative when you're delirious."

Gray looked at Tony curiously. Sort of. "I am?"

Gibbs scratched his chin to hide a smile.

"Don't tell us you forgot?" Tony grinned, but his eyes were sharp. "Got your life's ambitions out there, Smokey. All your hopes and dreams. Recess. Kickball . . . "

They watched the kid innocently shovel eggs into his mouth, enough hot sauce on top to set the building on fire.

Tony narrowed his eyes as the silence stretched out tellingly. "Well, I thought we had a nice little heart-to-heart."

Gray's eggs were already gone. He set down his fork and drained the milky coffee sitting in front of him. "If I forgot then I wouldn't know, would I?"

Tony and Ziva paused, forks mid-air, to look at him.

"We're flying out tonight, Gray. Helo leaves at 2100," Gibbs said.

Gray nodded, picked up his empty plate, and walked away.

Tony snorted and went back to his breakfast. "Whatever. That fever was real. And he told us about the files . . ."

But only because he'd chosen to tell them, Tony realized. When the kid was really delirious he'd screamed his head off. In Spanish.

Gibbs pushed his plate away and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Yep. Told us just enough to sniff around for information about Ziva."

"You think he was punching us for information?" Ziva frowned. "He did not seem insincere when he spoke about his future."

Gibbs tilted his mug and peered into it. Colombian coffee in Colombia really was fantastic. Actually, breakfast all around was fantastic. Just as a concept, in life.

Apparently the giddy part wasn't over yet.

"Maybe," Gibbs said. "For the distant future. He was aware enough to avoid anything relevant." He decided to probe. "About himself, at least."

"That he had access to some level of your personnel files means that Kort trusts him." She skipped over the fact that Kort didn't seem to trust him with _her_ file. "It does not tell us anything about Gray," she nodded. Agreeing with Gibbs. Ignoring the probe. "He did not give anything significant about himself away."

"Doesn't matter whether he was faking the talkative part or not. We didn't tell him anything either." Tony shrugged it off.

Gibbs caught Ziva's shuttered gaze and looked at her steadily. Because Dinozzo was wrong. Exactly one thing would be fairly obvious to Gray after the conversation they'd had in front of the kid.

Her NCIS teammates didn't know much about Ziva's background. They knew less, at least, than Kort.

"Nope." Gibbs finished his coffee and got up to get some more. "Nobody said a word."


	26. Block Party

**Chapter 26: Block Party**

After breakfast they asked one of the communications guys for a set of extension cords and moved their laptops to a corner of the hangar. It smelled like motor oil but was breezy and shady and way more pleasant than the sterile conference room. It was also where the guys on break seemed to gather.

Gray appeared after lunch with Rodge and Pete, the pilot carrying a basketball under his arm. Several of the men stripped off their shirts and began to battle it out under a battered hoop. Tony talked his way into the game and Ziva wandered over to sit next to Gray, assessing the various physiques in a voice just loud enough for the men to hear. They flexed their sweaty pecs a bit more than was strictly necessary in a game of basketball.

Except for the military equipment everywhere and the unrelenting keen of insects it could have been a scene from any ordinary, muggy day in a DC park.

Rodge invited Ziva to play and Gibbs was about to intervene when Pete did it for him. The doctor felt the knot on her head the day before and was surprised she was up and moving around, much less playing basketball, and said so.

Gibbs finally closed out the file he was reading and abandoned the computer when he heard Ziva laugh in response to something Gray said. Just beyond them, Tony was keeping up despite the impressive fitness of the other guys and the fatigue Gibbs' team was still feeling.

Then again, his senior agent's competitive streak didn't always leave room for common sense.

"Pop those stitches and I'll staple you back up myself, Dinozzo," Gibbs called out.

Tony took his eyes off the ball for a moment to look over at him, face haggard but happy, the strain of the last few weeks only lingering in the new lines etched around his mouth, the fading smudges under his eyes.

"Sure thing Boss." He grinned, sweaty face radiating fun, and threw himself back into the game.

If Gibbs didn't know better it would be easy to believe his second was totally untouched by it all. But he did know better.

A grizzled man walked through the hangar door and watched the game for a minute before coming to stand next to Gibbs. "Like a tour, Gunny?"

Gibbs looked him over and the man returned his stare, face blank. "Somebody in Washington seems to think you should have one."

Gibbs nodded, filing that away. "Lead the way."

Most of the "tour" was spent in the CO's tiny office, going over the base's capabilities. Surveillance, communications, transport, range of operations, general equipment and weaponry. Seemed Kort wanted him to know what was available here.

Less than an hour in, Gray knocked on the door. Gibbs watched the CO stand and step out into the hall with him. They spoke quietly for a minute and Gray walked off. The officer returned to his desk.

"I think that covers it." The man smiled faintly. "You might want to rejoin your people in the hangar."

He was already on the phone, haggling over base supplies, by the time Gibbs made it out the door.

In the hangar the basketball teams were propped against a wall, chugging fluids, arguing college hoops. Gray sat among them, quiet as always. But now his attention was elsewhere as well, his eyes on the wire and the bright field beyond.

Gibbs considered putting it off. But the kid was prone to disappearing - no telling when he'd have another chance.

So he walked over and stood in front of him, blocking his view. "Need to talk to you. If you've got a minute."

The kid just sat there, looking up at him.

Waiting for him to talk, Gibbs guessed.

"Take a walk with me," the agent said firmly.

Gray picked up the water bottle at his side and climbed to his feet. Gibbs followed as the boy made his way past the hulking men sitting next to him, along the wall of the building and the lip of shade it provided. At the corner he turned to follow the perpendicular wall, and when the voices behind them had faded, finally stopped and turned back to Gibbs.

Gray leaned casually against the corrugated siding. It was obvious he was too tired to want to walk much of anywhere.

Gibbs didn't bother to disguise a blatant sweep. The wound to his abdomen must still be bothering him, along with the lingering effects of fever and fatigue. Other than that he looked alright - though his long-sleeved shirt was too hot for summer on the equator, and there was no need for it here on the base, no jungle tearing at him . . .

Whatever, Gibbs was fairly sure he didn't want to know what that was about.

It was shady here at least, now the sun was past its zenith, and quiet, nobody working or passing time on this side of the building.

"Sit." He waved a hand at the warm asphalt and slid down himself, ignoring the pull of the strained muscles in his legs. Gray followed, settling just out of arm's reach. His eyes still rested on the wire, or maybe the wilderness beyond.

Gibbs didn't say anything for a minute. He relaxed, studying the tangle of trees past the fence and then the kid beside him, wondering what Gray was looking for out there.

"What do you want?" Gray said.

The agent looked away, out toward the wire again. "To thank you for coming back for my team," he said simply, "when we were taken by that patrol. For one thing."

Gray slouched against the building and stared off into the distance. Waiting for Gibbs to get to the point.

"Though I'm not sure why you did," he added mildly.

Silence.

But Gibbs had nowhere to be. He could wait all day.

"That it?"

"No." He let his eyes drift from the wire to the boy's face again. Gibbs wouldn't force him to answer. But there were some questions he at least had to ask. "I want to know why you came for me in the first place."

Gray sipped from his water bottle. "But not to thank me for it?" His tone ironic. Old. Slippery as an eel.

"Can't say I'm not glad to be out of that camp," Gibbs said honestly, letting the dodge go. "But you were sent into a dangerous situation to do it and that wasn't right. You shouldn't have been there."

Not this time, Gibbs thought. Not for me. And not before either, when you were made into this.

Silence. And then a low, "No one should be there."

Gibbs' eyebrows crept up. He was surprised Gray volunteered that. Hell, he was surprised Gray hadn't already got up and walked off. Talking didn't seem to be his thing.

"No kids should be in a place like that," Gibbs said, matter-of-fact. "No civilians. But law enforcement should be there. Need to be, if they're going to shut it down."

"Yeah."

That was a _Whatever, old man_.

"That it?"

And that was just bored.

Well, fair enough. Maybe shutting it down was a fantasy, Gibbs thought tiredly. Given what he knew of Londono's influence in the area it was possible local law enforcement was running that damn camp.

"No. One other thing."

Gibbs scratched his forehead, trying to figure a way in. And just for a second, he allowed himself to wallow in how much he hated this.

But in a very real way it was his mess now. His responsibility. No matter the kid's opaque motivations; the shadow maneuvering of the CIA or the desperate, half-insane mission his own idiot team pursued. All that was irrelevant in the end, because it was impossible to deny that Gray had gone in after _him_. To get Gibbs out.

And then he'd come back for him, and for his agents. He wasn't sure if Ziva and Tony realized it, but Gibbs was aware of exactly what the kid did for them.

Gray must have been waiting for the patrol to turn in for the night when he saw that Ziva was in trouble. Waiting for the men to fall asleep is what Gibbs himself would have done. And beyond that, the timing was too perfect. He'd stopped it, as Ziva said, before it went too far.

The kid was watching. And he'd decided to spare her, or die trying.

Gray could have waited a few more hours. Until they'd finished. Just thinking it made bile sting the back of Gibbs' throat. But eventually the patrol would have gone to sleep, leaving only the one guard. It was all too obvious how easily Gray could take down one guard. How easily he could have freed the team, and kept himself safe.

God knows why, but when he'd stepped into that fight the kid risked everything. For them. Not even to save their lives - simply to keep them whole, to protect them. Though he'd saved them alright, Tony and Ziva, in a way that a kid shouldn't even understand.

Now they were all safe, supposedly. For the moment.

Trouble was, Gibbs didn't buy the odd, cold calm. Not any more than he bought the act Dinozzo was constantly selling, or the glass smooth veneer to Ziva's eyes.

Gibbs clasped his hands firmly over his knees and turned enough to see Gray's face. "You used tranquilizers on my guards at the camp. That your idea?"

A shrug. But it had to be either the kid's or Kort's. It was unusual to say the least.

"Because you didn't want to use deadly force?"

Gray was utterly still. And then Gibbs got a nod, so slight it might have been an indrawn breath.

"You had to kill when you came back for us," Gibbs said bluntly, and paused for a reaction. When there was none he plowed on. "You shouldn't have been put in that position." He drew in a quiet breath, and then slowly let it out again. He knew this wasn't a sign of weakness, but it disgusted him all the same. The words felt pale and meaningless, even as he said them. "I'm sorry that you were."

He watched Gray's face. But there was nothing there. Not the protests of a child. Not the reassurances of a man. Just – nothing.

Gibbs looked away again, out into the dark jungle. Following the kid's stare, searching for the words that might traverse the gulf between them - young and old, guerilla and soldier - outsider and the law itself.

But Gibbs hadn't always been the law. "Le duele, yo sé," he said finally, quietly. Almost to himself. "You can talk to me, if you ever want to. Anytime."

Silence, broken only by the insects and the faint, raucous voices of the men teasing each other on the other side of the building.

"That's it," he said finally.

Gray got up then, silent as the sniper he'd apparently trained to be, and walked away.

Gibbs followed a few minutes later, back to the hanger and the laptop he'd borrowed that morning. He tuned out the basketball rematch and resumed clicking through the files McGee sent to them.

He was going to bring these bastards down.

**x**

It was mid-afternoon when Gray stood and made his way to the closest gate. Behind him the Final Four argument trailed away.

The Rangers and agents watched as Gray stopped at the guard platform and spoke to the men on duty there, the voices too far away to hear. Tony and Ziva got to their feet and shaded their eyes against the sun as the boy stepped out of the gate and began walking toward the trees.

"What is he doing?" Ziva asked, tense and confused. The men didn't answer, but they were relaxed, sipping calmly from water bottles as they watched Gray recede into the distance.

When he was almost to the trees a figure rose up out of the grass at Gray's feet.

The two stood together for a moment, then turned and began walking back toward the gate. The figure at Gray's side waved a hand forward, and behind them a line of boys stepped out of the trees, black silhouettes of rifles over their shoulders.

They piled their weapons at the inside of the gate, and then the men who had watched them approach stood and walked forward, greeting Gray and the boys with him in patchy Spanish. They were lean, dressed in a baggy mix of the same fatigues the Calera guards wore and civilian clothing. None of them looked much older than Gray, and some looked a whole lot younger.

A cooler full of sodas, a soccer ball, and four orange traffic cones appeared. The kids stripped down to t-shirts and began kicking the ball around, chattering and laughing and dribbling circles around the men from the base. Gray sat next to the cooler with a couple of the older boys, talking quietly and drinking beer.

The NCIS agents drifted over to Pete, who stood watching the game on the sidelines.

Pete glanced at Tony. "Stitches still there?"

"Yeah," Tony said, and waved a hand at the surreal melee around them. It looked like Apocalpyse Now collided with Sesame Street. "What's going on?"

"Block party," Pete said, as if it was obvious. "Come on and help me pull out the grill. It's a two man job."

The doctor walked off toward the hangar door. Tony stared after him for a moment, and followed.

Gibbs and Ziva watched the match until one of the kids ran up, breathless, and asked Ziva in staccato Spanish if she wanted to play. The two agents looked the teen over and reassessed. She had braids pulled up under her cap. And, Gibbs realized with a pang, the beginnings of a girl's figure under the baggy shirt.

Ziva was warned against head shots and released into the game. Half-an-hour later Gibbs was flipping burgers on the grill and turning corn still in the husk, talking gang activity in DC with an oddly well-informed Rodge.

**x**

The kids stayed until sunset, shrieking and laughing and playing a damn rough game of soccer, leaving smudges of blood and skin on the tarmac. When the light began to fade the men gathered the cones and put them away and the kids became quiet again, sitting cross-legged on the cement together.

When the last of the sun dipped below the horizon the NCIS agents ducked back inside to grab their personal gear, reappearing in the hangar moments later. More than ready to go.

Gray sat in a close huddle with several other dark shapes, listening and speaking occasionally, black backpack already by his side.

The agents nodded goodbye to the anonymous men stationed at the base, sincerely wishing them well, and waved farewell to the tough knot of kids they'd spent the afternoon with. When it was just dark Rodge and Pete settled into the cockpit of the Black Hawk, pilot lights blinking on and the blades beginning to move a minute later.

The kids sitting on the tarmac climbed to their feet and the agents watched, curious, as Gray stood aside from them, the dark huddle closing in around someone else. Ziva's eyes strained to pick out whoever was in the center of the mix, but it was impossible to see. Perhaps one of the men at the base? But the children hadn't seemed particularly close to one of the Rangers over the others . . .

A moment later the group parted and a small figure stepped out of the huddle to stand by Gray. The agents followed the dark outlines of the two boys with their eyes as they climbed into the helicopter together, Gray pulling the smaller one up after him. The rest of the kids watched them disappear into the chopper's belly. Then they turned and walked away, toward the gate where they had entered, where their weapons were piled. They picked them up as they passed, the last one slinging the extra over his shoulder, and finally melted once more into the forest outside the wire.

From the copilots' seat Pete waved a _let's go_ hand at the agents. They climbed into the chopper to sit across from Gray and a boy with dark floppy hair and careful eyes. He couldn't have been more than ten.

Gibbs shot Tony and Ziva a look. It was the _Do you know who/what/why? _The same look they'd gotten a thousand times before back in the bullpen.

They smiled a little even as they subtly shook their heads. The unfortunate _no clue boss._

**x**

They weren't changing to a plane in one of the villages this time. They flew all the way to the base outside Bogota in the Black Hawk. When the team spilled out onto the runway it was after 0200 and Tony was pretty sure the hearing loss was going to be permanent. Even when the rotors shut down and fell silent he could still feel the shake of the helicopter's engine in his bones, and was fairly certain he would for weeks.

Rodge and Pete checked in with the base tower and got the location of the cargo plane the NCIS agents would be riding back to DC. It was leaving in half an hour. The Rangers walked with Gray and the other boy to the runway, the agents following behind. The aircraft was already there and ready for them to board, but Gray stood outside, listening as his Ranger buddies joked about what they had planned next for "vacation," the younger boy silent and close to his side.

Gibbs stretched contentedly. The night air was cool and quiet and felt good after a day spent playing in the sun, followed by bone-jarring hours in the helo. His agents stood beside him, a little ways from the plane, lazily debating . . . well, something. Gibbs wasn't exactly sure what.

"My car," Tony said rapturously.

"My shower," Ziva responded.

"Too vague. Besides, you always say that." Dinozzo again. Unimpressed. "And there's nothing special about it," he leered. "I checked."

Ziva rolled her eyes. "So? You always say your car, which is equally vague and lacking in any special qualities."

"Blasphemy, Zee. There is nothing vague about my beautiful car. It's a precision machine. And I miss it."

"As I miss my shower. It has the perfect pressure. And the hot water setting is exactly the right amount of hot."

They were quiet, but only for a moment. The rest of the conversation was devoted to the individual virtues of their showers.

Sometimes it was hard for Gibbs to believe the two of them weren't dating. He contributed that his shower's best feature was its proximity to his own bed. And of course, he added pointedly, the peace and quiet.

When the crew gave the final nod Gibbs stepped purposefully toward Pete.

"Thanks for the ride." He didn't bother using his name. "Pete" already told them pretty plainly that if anything, it wasn't Pete.

The man smiled. "From what I hear you earned it. Get someone to look at your back when you're in DC. It'll need to be checked for infection."

Gibbs held out his hand, and Pete's came out to grip it, his eyes resting heavy on Gibbs' for a moment. "Sua Sponte, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs grinned. The Ranger Motto . . . "Of their own accord."

"Damn straight. I mean look at me – I'm on vacation!" Gibbs' gut tingled as Pete turned away to shake hands with Dinozzo and Ziva.

Rodge stood to the side, looking grumpy as usual. Gibbs came to stand in front of him, not sure if the tempermental pilot would actually take his hand.

Cranky or not the man had literally lifted his ass out of the weeds, so Gibbs put his hand out there anyway. "Thank you. For the ride."

Rodge tore his gaze away from Gray to look Gibbs up and down. "Been assured you're worth it," he said.

Rodge took Gibbs' hand in his own firmly, leaning in a little. "You owe him." He tilted his head toward Gray without moving his eyes from Gibbs'.

"I know."

Rodge just stared at him.

"Sua Sponte," Gibbs said solemnly.

"Yeah. Well, we'll see."

Rodge was still holding onto him. He hesitated, but finally let Gibbs' hand go even as he leaned closer to the agent and dropped his voice, glancing pointedly at Gray. "But you obviously owe me too, so . . ." He cleared his throat. "If you cross his path and you notice that he . . . Look. You should know . . . uh, he's not always - "

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow. He was ready to bet that Rodge's nana was more articulate about the whole mother hen thing.

Rodge caught the smirk and scowled. "Keep him out of anything too dangerous. Or stupid." He eyed Gibbs fiercely for a moment. Whether he found what he was looking for or not Rodge sighed, scratched his massive bald head, and finally leaned back out of Gibbs' space, adding a gruff, "If you can."

Gibbs crossed his arms over his chest. "Anything too dangerous. Or stupid. You mean like hiking into a drug lord's jungle hideout and picking fights with mercenaries? All for some old geezer he's never even met?"

"Yeah," Rodge turned dark eyes back to Gibbs. "Keep him out of shit like that." He walked up to Gray and took him by the shoulders in a loose, sort of macho hug. Then he turned to the nameless boy beside him and sticking out an enormous hand. Gibbs stared as the smaller boy reached up and shook it.

Saying goodbye.

Pete did the same, ruffling the younger one's hair and saying what looked like "good luck" before stepping back and watching both kids walk up the ramp and into the hold.

Tony could feel his neck extending forward in surprise. "He . . . what? He's not with you?" Dinozzo looked back at Rodge and Pete. The two men laughed and waved and turned away, walking toward the Black Hawk, disappearing into the night.

"It looks like our return party has grown," Ziva murmured, and climbed up the ramp after the boys.

They had a few minutes before the plane's engines began to rev and of course Dinozzo took the time to investigate. He clambered through the hold to where Gray and . . . well, Tony guessed he was sort of a mini Gray, were both strapping themselves in. Gibbs and Ziva headed to the opposite side of the hold and pretended not to be listening too hard.

"Hey, Gray. Looks like you're carrying some extra baggage this time around. What's your name, buddy?"

Gray adjusted the buckle over his waist and turned to secure his bag in the netting beside him. Surprisingly he answered. In a way. "Don't call my buddy baggage, Agent Dinozzo."

The boy at Gray's side looked at Tony with big, chocolate brown eyes and said nothing.

"Huh. You're just as talkative as Gray here, aren't you. Well, I can dig that. My name's Anthony Dinozzo. Mi nombre es Anthony Dinozzo. You going to Washington with us? Taking a vacation?"

The kid looked from Tony to Gray. Finally adjusted into his own seat, and finished checking over the younger boy's straps, Gray sat back and gave the kid a little nod, toward Tony, like a _go on_.

The boy turned to Tony and calmly said, "No strangers. I do not talk."

The accent was pretty thick but the words were deliberate and clear.

"Well," Tony smiled hugely, "good for you! That is smart. But you see, I'm not a stranger. I'm a federal agent." Tony swung his backpack forward and rummaged through one of the pockets, speaking slowly for the benefit of those new to the language. "That's like a cop. A police officer. See, here's my badge." He pulled his badge out of his bag and flipped it open, holding it forward for the kid to see. "So you can talk to me."

The boy glanced back at Gray again. Gray raised his eyebrows, another _go on_.

Tony wasn't anticipating cooperation from that corner, but he wasn't about to question it, either.

The boy sat forward in his seat, leaning against the straps to look closely at the badge and the picture on the ID card, going back and forth between it and Tony twice before he sat back. Anticipation built as he evaluated first the badge, then the agent.

And said, serenely, "My guardian - not here."

Behind him, Tony heard Ziva laugh.

"Uh huh." Tony flipped the badge closed and glanced at Gray, who was squinting out past them both, looking at the runway. The faintest of grins tugged at his mouth.

"And who exactly is your guardian? I would love to talk to her." He looked deliberately at Gray. "Or him."

The kid frowned a little and squeezed the strap at his waist in his hands. His face got red, like he was thinking hard enough to emit steam. Finally, tentatively, he said, "No more? Questions?"

Gray, not taking his eyes off of the runway, leaned in toward the boy and whispered in his ear. The kid turned to face him, listening intently, then nodded and turned back to Tony.

He smiled a little shyly. "Try again?"

Tony gamely asked again. "Who is your guardian? And what's your name?"

The kid smiled for real this time. He was excited to answer this one, no doubt. "No more questions with no lawyer!"

Ziva's laughter peeled out, echoing around the metal cavern of the aircraft.

"Oh my god," Tony mumbled. "Okay. Good talking to you, kid with no name. Enjoy your flight."

He walked across the plane to sit next to Ziva. In the few minutes remaining before the engines drowned out all conversation they watched Gray teach the kid a variety of high-fives, as well as new vocabulary including "right on" and "awesome."

Even Gibbs stared as both of the boys dropped off to sleep within twenty minutes of take-off.

Then, of course, the boss dropped off too.

Ziva was next. It took a little longer but Tony, eventually, closed his eyes. He'd been sleeping like a rock since they were lifted out of Calera land, his body still tired, recovering from the abuse. When he opened his eyes again one of the crew was yelling into the hold. Half an hour to Pax River.

Tony stretched and straightened and smiled, bouncing his knees a little, looking forward to the return. Back to America. Land that he knew.

Gibbs was still pissed, Tony was all too aware of that. And the fight with the Caleras might not be over. Probably wasn't. But Tony could handle a pissed-off Gibbs. He was pretty sure. As for the fight with the cartel, it would be on _his_ terms from here on out. With rules that he knew, in a place he understood.

Most good war flicks have that triumphant return scene. Through the castle gates, across the home fields, down a gangplank – whatever the era calls for. There'd be a swell of music, adoring women. A swaggery walk from the heroes.

There wasn't any swell of music, and the only beautiful woman in sight was Ziva, who wasn't so much adoring as joining in the swagger, a victorious comrade-in-arms. But, beyond the music and the babes, that stroll down the gangplank with Gibbs at their backs was pretty damn good. The sun was just up, catching the whole world in its warm yellow glow. The air was that swampy jet fuel brew of a DC runway in summer. And damn if they hadn't got the boss out and brought him back. Tony felt ten feet tall.

They were escorted to a tiny customs counter by one of the flight crew, where Gray pulled shiny new American passports out for himself and his sidekick. Everyone learned from the gratifyingly loud interviewing officer that mini Gray's first name, at least, was Mateo.

Kort was waiting for them just past the gate. He was lounging in a plastic airport chair, impeccable as always in a pale gray suit. Six enormous guys in generic black agency suits sat with him.

There wasn't any welcome home hug. Kort stood without a word to lead Gray and Mateo quickly through the lobby area, then out the doors on the opposite side of the building. The men in suits surrounded the NCIS agents and herded them the same way, crossing the exposed space as fast as possible.

Two black SUVs idled just beyond the entrance. Gray, Mateo and Kort got into the first car, followed by three of the hulking guards, suit jackets straining over weapons as they bent to stuff themselves into the vehicle. The NCIS agents were ushered into the second car, followed by their own gigantic set of guards. The drivers peeled away from the curb and a few seconds later they were leaving the lot, wrapped in the smooth, cool silence of a top-of-the line SUV.

The silence stretched, surreal. Was no one going to say anything, ever?

Finally Tony turned to one of the anonymous men who made up their escort.

"So. Since we're skipping the introductions, would you mind just cutting to the chase and telling us where we're headed? Cause wherever it is I could use a stop at IHOP on the way, to be honest. Bottomless pancakes sound pretty good right now. And a frozen chai latte, that would hit the spot. I'm thinking chocolate chip for the pancakes. Chocolate and maple syrup – it's a dynamic duo."

Tony looked at the guard expectantly.

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Uh oh." Tony dragged his bag up onto his knees and pulled out his cell phone. "You know we're in trouble when they start calling me sir, Boss."

"True." Gibbs peered through the window as the SUV navigated the morning rush hour, reading the thruway signs in an attempt to get a sense of where they were headed.

Tony spoke into the phone. "Kort. The gorillas you left us with don't seem to realize that the next stop is IHOP."

A pause.

"Really. And you think they're just as good as the International House of Pancakes?"

Tony pulled the phone away from his ear. "He hung up on me."

Ziva gave him a look that said she wasn't so tired that she couldn't still beat the crap out of him.

"Well. Kort says the cafeteria at Langely is excellent and that we will most definitely be there long enough to try the pancakes."

Gibbs slouched down into the buttery leather seat, closed his eyes, and fell asleep – but not before he noticed that Kort's SUV wasn't going the same way their own was going.

They were waved through Langley security and driven up to a nondescript side door, then pulled into the building and straight into showers. They hosed themselves down, put on hospital gowns, and enjoyed brief medical exams before putting their freshly laundered clothes back on. They met back up with one of their original guards at that point, who ushered them into a room with a mix of breakfast and lunch stuff set out on plastic trays – juice, coffee, pastries, sandwiches. No pancakes.

Almost two hours passed. Ziva paced. Gibbs and Tony glared silently at the beige walls.

Finally the guards got a call, and the NCIS interlopers were summoned to their debriefing.


	27. The Nature of the Relationship

**Chapter 27: The Nature of the Relationship**

From the beige breakfast room they were ushered into a windowless gray conference room – a room in all ways featureless, really – and told that "the others" would be joining them shortly.

"The Others," Tony muttered. He traced his fingers along the length of the table, searching for obvious recording devices. "Creepy Nicole Kidman with a severe case of mistaken identity. Let's hope the CIA isn't about to smother us with our pillows."

Ziva and Gibbs sat down silently and waited, still and expressionless, the definition of cool. It was Tony's turn to pace.

Kort showed up a few minutes later. He was wrapped in the same slick gray suit, a manila folder in hand. He slouched into a chair without a word and opened the folder, shuffling through the papers there intently.

Seconds passed in silence.

He was going to ignore them.

Seriously?

Tony didn't bother to stop pacing. "Well, as I live and breathe, Trent Kort!" he said enthusiastically. And continued with a very loud and unfriendly, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Kort looked up slowly, turning his eyes away from whatever was in that folder reluctantly. "Waiting for your debriefing to start, Dinozzo." He raised his eyebrows. _And you?_

Tony stared at the man for a moment. Then he pulled out a chair across from him and sat forward, instantly serious.

"Where are Gray and Mateo right now?"

Kort considered him, probably deciding what to divulge, the prick. Tony ground his teeth, hands curling involuntarily into fists.

"Gray is completing the same medical exam that you just received," Kort said. "Mateo isn't your concern."

The agents focused sharply on Kort. That sounded an awful lot like an admission - that Gray _was_ their concern. It was more than any one of them had expected.

Tony let that subject drop while he was ahead. There were plenty more to tackle.

"Why don't you just tell us why you pulled Gibbs out of there?"

Kort smiled. Or maybe he was showing his teeth. "I didn't 'pull Gibbs' out of anywhere. Why, having second thoughts, Dinozzo?" He returned to the papers in his lap. "Can't back out now, I'm afraid. You've already sold your soul."

"Kort."

Tony sat back in his chair as Gibbs spoke up. The boss studied Kort calmly. "Why?"

There was no more pretense of Gibbs having intel on the Calera cartel. All of his new insight involved daily life while chained to a pipe in one crappy, out-of-the-way shack. Whatever the reasons behind the CIA's generosity, Gibbs' information wasn't it.

Kort continued to look at the file in front of him, fingering the edges of the pages as he turned them. "Several reasons," he said eventually.

Tony exchanged a glance with Ziva at the neutral response. Kort sounded like he was . . . _open_ to giving them answers. Or hints maybe.

Once again, more than they expected.

He would have reason to keep them happy - feed them information - if he needed their cooperation. But Kort and the Agency had the upper hand pretty firmly here already. Didn't they?

"Such as?" Gibbs pressed.

"You can undoubtedly figure them out."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. Why the game?

"His history with the Calera cartel," Ziva volunteered.

"Yes." Kort flipped a page dismissively and studied the next one in the stack, voice barely holding up under the weight of its own sarcasm. "Like thousands of law enforcement officers before him, Gibbs has a history with the Calera cartel."

"But you _are_ looking for someone to join you against Londono and his cartel," Ziva probed.

Kort shrugged. "Possibly."

Gibbs frowned. _Possibly?_

What other reason -

Gibbs stiffened. Besides Gibbs himself and the Caleras, the kid was the only remaining element in the puzzle, and also the biggest unknown.

"Military background. Experience in - ah, ops in Colombia." Tony offered. He meant to sound more aggressive, but he was still a little rocked on his heels by the fact that Kort was cooperating. Sort of cooperating.

The CIA agent sighed in that oh-so-British way. "Yes indeed. Like tens of thousands of government servants around the world, Gibbs can fire a weapon, and even hit what he's aiming at."

Well, that was pretty dismissive of what Tony was fairly sure included highly specialized Black Ops experience on the boss's part. But. Point taken. Gibbs wasn't unique among CIA operatives on that score.

Gibbs considered the man thoughtfully. One part of the equation was Gray, apparently. But why Gibbs?

Kort had specified "law enforcement officers" and "government servants" when he dismissed Tony and Ziva's guesses. So it wasn't either of those – it wasn't professional.

It was some personal asset, or maybe a trait the CIA was looking for. Beyond some pretty good carpentry skills he only had one standout personal asset.

"My team."

Kort flipped through a yellow pad of paper and twisted the cap off his pen. "Very good, Gibbs. Your team was . . . illustrative."

Tony frowned. "But you don't want us. You want _him . . . _You want Gibbs because he knows how to pick a good team?"

Gibbs snorted. His agents didn't appear to notice.

"Not because we are good," Ziva said slowly. "Many teams are good. Because we are . . . ah, willing to bend the rules?"

Kort glanced up and smirked. "Hardly a distinction of note at the CIA, Agent David. Though we have nothing on Mossad, do we?"

Ziva didn't even blink at the dig. "Because we are loyal?"

Kort started to write on the pad, saying nothing.

That was it? Or at least one of the reasons.

Gibbs watched as Dinozzo made one of those dizzying intuitive leaps - the ones he had no idea he was famous for. But he was, at least in Gibbs' book. He'd never seen anything else like it.

"You want Gibbs to make someone - to make Gray loyal? To _recruit_ him?"

Tony was horrified by the notion, though he knew he didn't really have to worry. Gibbs would never do it -

Kort's lips twitch in a wholly mocking manner. "Does it look to you like Gray needs to be recruited, Dinozzo?"

Well, no. And yet Kort hadn't denied - "But it's about the kid?"

There was some hesitation, covered by shuffling papers, and then, "Gray is a valuable asset in the region." Kort's delivery was sales pitch smooth.

That was a _yes_.

Gibbs propped his chin in his hand and raised an eyebrow at Tony and Ziva. "I earned your loyalty, in case you forgot. Whatever the end goal is, Kort and the Agency want someone who _is_ loyal." Gibbs studied the man across the table from him. "Someone the kid will trust."

Kort referred to the file notes in front of him and then scribbled in his pad for a moment. "While that is essentially true," he said distractedly, "you give me a little too much credit. And the Agency far too much."

Kort's scalp actually tingled as the weight of three stares fell on him. The wheels of three investigative minds ground away in the stark silence.

"Gray was the one - the_ kid_ picked me?"

Kort paused in his review of the papers in front of him and finally looked up to meet Gibbs' gaze. He settled back in his chair, abandoning the file for the moment.

"I suggested candidates for . . . what may be required. Scores of them, actually. But yes, he chose you." O_ver my strong reservations_, was clear in the tone.

"Required – what for?"

"That will either become clear in time or will not be an issue," Kort said, vague but firm.

So . . . Gray had some potential use for Gibbs down the road. Maybe.

In the meantime, Gibbs would definitely be another well-placed enemy of the Calera cartel, with fantastic motivation to bring it down. But, as Kort had pointed out, he wasn't unique on that front.

"Why me?" Gibbs pressed. There were plenty of competent people out there who were trustworthy. A lot of them would also be younger and less cranky. And almost certainly less likely to require rescuing from a dangerous drug lord's jungle.

Kort searched Gibbs face. "You really don't know?" he said finally. Probing.

Still the man insisted on the game. Would he be _asking_ if he knew? Gibbs glared back at him.

Kort' gaze returned to the pad of paper in front of him without really seeing it, absently rotating the silver pen in his dominant hand. "Well, that is unfortunate," he said softly. "As I've no idea."

Tony sat forward, thinking he'd misunderstood. "What?"

Kort shrugged. "I don't know why he chose you. I advise, but Gray makes his own decisions. Originally we didn't want to go with anyone in law enforcement," he smirked. "The boy isn't particularly a fan. And certainly not someone so upstanding - your many _virtues_ are the most dangerous thing about you, Gibbs." Kort tapped his fingers on the yellow pad, thoughtful. "You weren't really in the running. And then you were his top choice. Apparently he uncovered some piece of intelligence to tip the scales." Kort's pale eyes ran over Gibbs, languid but sharp, as if trying to figure out what that something could possibly be.

"And you have no idea what it was?" Tony pressed, disbelieving.

"No."

"How can he have that much freedom on the CIA leash? You people count the zits on an informant's ass on any given day."

Kort drew the pad to him and began to write again.

"You misunderstand the relationship, Dinozzo. Gray has no ties to the CIA."

They were silent for a long moment, the scratch of Kort's pen loud in the soundproof room.

"Excuse me?" Ziva, incredulous.

"He provides information occasionally, to me, on the situation in Colombia. There is usually some compensation, through me, from the CIA. That's it. He has no ties to the Agency."

Kort smirked briefly at Dinozzo. "It's not that we've already recruited Gray. It's that 'recruiting' him is not possible. He's proven remarkably adept at staying out of the CIA's clutches."

Gibbs studied the man across from him, wondering exactly what he was playing at. Kort spoke as if it wasn't obvious that he himself must be responsible for keeping the kid out of CIA hands.

It was _Kort_ that Gray was tied to.

Whatever the connection between Gray and the CIA operative, Gibbs didn't buy that it was some neat exchange of intel for favors. It was personal. Kort was protective of Gray. Even, incredibly, seemed to trust him. That was interesting. Before this day Gibbs would have guessed that Kort trusted no one.

But that web of relationships didn't really matter, not at the moment.

"This stunt was a hell of a lot more than sharing information," Gibbs noted impatiently.

"Yes. The Caleras are becoming more powerful."

Well, no kidding. That wasn't exactly informative. Even Kort's inherent slipperyness wasn't quite slippy enough to cover up the enormous holes in his half-assed explanations.

"And the reconnaissance he was doing, on the way in and out?" Gibbs' voice was hard, recognizing the gaps and going after the biggest ones.

Kort glanced up, then back down at his pad. Considering how to answer?

"Occasionally the CIA paves the way for him to obtain information that we want," Kort acknowledged. "The Agency's official presence is kept to a minimum in that region due to the political complexities of the situation. We rely on local sources like Gray."

Local sources? As far as they knew the kid lived in DC. Gibbs grit his teeth and jumped to another topic. 'General sources of information' didn't get background on federal agents. But Gray had read their files.

"He said he read my file."

"Classified sections with the exception of your mission in Colombia were redacted, but yes." Kort shuffled the papers he was looking at and spoke distractedly once more. "Your family history was not what tipped you over the competition, if that is what concerns you. Not even the section that was so conveniently . . . lost. Written up and then forgotten by an Agent Macy, I believe?" Kort's soft mocking was barely audible over the pages he was flipping through. "Personally I have Paloma Reynosa's interest in forensics to thank for bringing it all to light. She's become quite the crusader for justice."

Beside him Gibbs felt Tony and Ziva stiffen. Kort _and _Gray, if the CIA agent was to be believed, knew not only about Gibbs' family but also the entire truth about the Hernandez murder.

Kort sensed the tension and looked up, considering Gibbs' flat blue stare almost curiously for a moment. "Frankly I found the lost bits to be the ones most in your favor. But whatever swayed Gray didn't come from your file, or from me. It was some other source."

And with that the man dismissed Pedro Hernandez as irrelevant.

Gibbs flexed his jaw as he digested that. In itself, the crime he committed didn't bother him anymore – he'd lived on the knife edge of that discovery for too long already, waiting to be exposed. There was something like relief there, when they'd finally come and dragged him back to Mexico to pay for it. If Gibbs had gone to trial it would have been the only part of all of it that was fair. Or at least the way it was supposed to be. Shannon and Kelly got nothing like fairness. Hernandez never faced justice - Gibbs destroyed him before the man ever knew what hit him. And now it seemed Gibbs would never face trial either.

He found he didn't really care, one way or another.

But it didn't feel good for the kid to know that part of his past. For Gray to be aware of that side of him. Hell, he didn't like that his agents knew it. He wasn't ashamed of what he'd done, exactly. But he wasn't proud either. At eighteen he'd been trained by his country as a sniper, and that training had only one purpose. Was it possible for an act of such permanent violence to be both right and wrong? When was it one, and not the other? He didn't have the answers to those kinds of questions. Matters of life and death had never inhabited neat black and white morality for him. Instead they seemed to hover forever in an impenetrable gray fog, where easy answers were damn hard to find.

Either way, Hernandez's death was long done, and Gibbs felt no regret for it. Now it was just an ugly thing for a boy to know about a cop, no matter what else the kid had seen of ugliness in the world. Right or wrong, it was the sort of dark knowledge that children are protected from. Or ought to be.

It felt strange for others to know about his family and the life that he'd left so far behind him. For Kort of all people to read about them in some dusty file . . .

"And the fact that Gibbs was kidnapped by the Caleras was the icing on the cake, huh? Your top pick needs rescuing that only you can provide?" Tony said darkly. "What a happy coincidence."

Kort quirked an eyebrow, amused at the suggestion. He had _arranged_ for Gibbs to be kidnapped, just so that Gray could go in and rescue the man?

"The mystical powers you assign to me are flattering, Dinozzo, but no. I was for dropping Gibbs from the running when he was snatched by the Reynosas. And then the Caleras. You do know how to piss people off," Kort muttered. "Risk versus reward, Gray was in greater danger than any of you out there. And Gibbs is also on their radar now. You're visible, a liability." He locked eyes with Gibbs. "And you're too scrupulous to be relied on, aren't you? As I've already told you, Gibbs wasn't among my top choices."

Kort was silent for a few moments, then shrugged. "Gray considered my objections but insisted on at least offering to go after you. Somehow you convinced him you are reliable without ever meeting him," he said irritably.

Kort glanced at all three agents before returning to his file, but the challenge in his voice was still clear. "Perhaps he thought your sense of honor would make the risk worthwhile. Since you owe him." The challenge tipped into something of a threat toward the end. _He better be right._

Gibbs clasped his hands in front of him and considered the man across the table. Kort didn't often give real information away, but he had there. _Gray was in greater danger than any of you._

How was that even possible? And if the danger was so great, why come after him at all? Gibbs turned that around in his mind.

_You're too scrupulous to be relied on_, Kort said_._

Apparently whatever they'd want from him would be dirty, or right on the edge of it.

The "too scrupulous" bit wasn't exactly true, though Gibbs could see why Kort might think it was. Hell, even his own team seemed to think that. McGee with his sister. Abby with her stalker. Even Dinozzo and his undercover assignment. Now Ziva and . . . whatever was lurking there.

Maybe he was too much of a hardass for people to come to him with their mistakes. Too much of a bastard perfectionist for anyone to imagine he would forgive them, or continue to accept them on his team. When the skeletons did float to the surface, though, Gibbs knew that he stood by his people. Even if they themselves didn't always believe it.

But Gibbs understood as well as anyone could that yesterday's mistakes don't necessarily make you who you are today.

The door opened then and three men in ties and a woman in a suit walked in, followed by Gray. The CIA people took seats toward the head of the table, the kid sat next to Kort, and the meeting began.


	28. Debrief

**Chapter 28: Debrief**

The NCIS agents' eyes followed Gray as he crossed the room and sat next to Kort. He looked alright.

Then they turned to study the CIA analysts. The youngest of the men powered up a laptop and removed a panel from the middle of the table to reveal a hub of wiring. He connected the computer to the room's network while the most senior official, sitting at the head of the table, did the introductions.

"I'm glad to see all of you here in one piece." He was older than Gibbs, but still robust and muscular, with wiry gray hair and smooth mocha skin. The words were accompanied by a small smile that actually seemed genuine. "Gray, I understand you were injured. Are you comfortable enough to proceed?"

"I'm fine," Gray said.

The man nodded and turned to Gibbs. "Agent Gibbs, welcome home."

Gibbs nodded, squelching the desire to point out that he hadn't actually gotten home yet.

Little lines crinkled up around the official's eyes, as if he could read Gibbs' mind. "Thank you for bearing with us for this debriefing." He nodded to Dinozzo and Ziva, but kept his gaze on the team leader. "It's a policy designed to protect people, as well as information."

"I'm familiar with debriefing protocol," Gibbs said.

"Yes. I've read your file. You and your agents are comfortable?" He looked Tony and Ziva over, honestly appearing to be . . . nice. "Can we get you anything before we begin?"

The agents shook their heads.

"Alright then. Let's get started. The CIA has been monitoring the activities of the Calera cartel for decades, but an uptick in activity and influence over the last few years has led to concern. It seems that this particular cartel will now be of interest to NCIS as well. Agent Gibbs, I've spoken with your director and he has agreed on a policy of sharing information. My team will be furnished with your report regarding this incident, from Gibbs' abduction in Mexico through his extraction from Calera custody. Agents Dinozzo and David, your reports will also be appreciated." CIA Boss smiled wryly. "Once you have a moment to write them, of course."

Gibbs and his agents nodded, faces perfectly bland. The CIA would have wanted them to write up their accounts on the spot. Vance must have put his foot down.

"Frankly, we don't have any similar intelligence to share with you. We have no agents within the Calera organization at this time and keep contact between our people and the Calera at a minimum due to the region's complicated political climate."

CIA Boss shrugged at Gibbs' scowl. "The Calera cartel is powerful on many fronts, Agent Gibbs. They are actually valuable to some of our own interests. The truth is they've been incredibly useful on the political scene and in the civil war. Neither the United States nor Colombia is willing to openly risk that support, despite Calera involvement in the drug trade."

Gibbs could feel his soul hollowing out just listening to that crap. He shuddered to think what it would be like to work with the mindset every day. "Right. The justification for supporting corrupt politicians and murderous gangs." Gibbs set his shoulders. "I'm familiar with the reasoning. You can move on."

The room fell uncomfortably still. Tony and Ziva tensed, prepared to have Gibbs' back even if it was just around a conference table.

"It's a frustrating situation," CIA Boss said smoothly. He didn't seem to take offense. "One with no easy solution. I understand you were the principal sniper in a mission that killed the top three in the Calera organization back in '92. Your mission was part of an effort that successfully crippled the cartel for a good ten years. That is the kind of movement that we are exploring here."

"That's classified," Gibbs said stiffly.

CIA Boss glanced around the table. "Everyone here has the clearance necessary, or can be read into the op," he dipped his head toward Ziva and Tony.

Gibbs glanced pointedly at Gray and then back to the CIA supervisor's eyes. "I disagree."

The cool gaze never left Gibbs. "Gray has already been read into that portion of your file."

"Well that's unfortunate, since reading him into a classified operation constitutes involving him in it. And that would obviously be a war crime."

The stillness intensified, everyone at the table shifting subtly to stare from Gibbs to the resolutely calm man at its head.

CIA Boss sat back in his seat. "A war crime. Due to his age?"

Gibbs didn't bother to answer that.

"And what do you call his actual involvement in rescuing you from the Calera camp?"

"A much more serious crime."

Tony and Ziva glanced between the two men and then to Gray, who followed the conversation with dull, disinterested eyes - as if the topic was the weather on a particularly boring week.

"If that were true your own agents would be complicit in it," CIA Boss pointed out.

"I'm well aware of that."

CIA Boss abruptly got up and walked over to the side table, pouring coffee from a silver carafe into one of the dark mugs grouped next to the milk and sugar. "I tend to agree with you, Gibbs, on both counts. Of course, depending on your interpretation of international law and CIA mandate, the mission you carried out in '92 was illegal too, regardless of the age of the participants."

Gibbs shrugged. "Technically illegal, maybe. But sanctioned. And necessary."

"Ah. So a crime is acceptable to you if it is deemed necessary." The man swirled a spoon in his coffee and didn't pause for an answer. "And you have decided Gray's presence here is not?"

"I haven't been told anything to indicate that it is," Gibbs said steadily.

CIA Boss sat back down. "You don't consider your rescue to have been necessary."

"Obviously not." Gibbs' voice was curt.

"Hm. Well, I'm telling you now. His presence here is necessary."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. Unimpressed.

CIA Boss raised his own. "As has been explained, intelligence on the ground in the area around Camp Six is scarce. The same can be said for much of this organization's activities, as well as the identities and movements of its leaders. At this stage any source of information is crucial to our efforts to get a handle on a cartel that is shaping up to be a serious threat in the drug war and dangerous to the political and social stability of the entire region."

Tony huffed a little at that. _Shaping up_ to be a serious threat? The thugs had their own army, for god's sake.

"I never said he wasn't convenient." Gibbs spoke slowly, as if he thought the person receiving the words might be mentally deficient. "I'm sure he is. If exploiting children wasn't convenient we wouldn't need laws against it."

The man at the head of the table sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Then he continued as if Gibbs had never interrupted him. "Beyond our own interests, it has been made clear to me that Gray's involvement in these matters is the only way to actually ensure his safety, and the safety of his family in the long run. Is that sufficient for you, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs looked from CIA Boss's patient face to Gray, who stared back at him pokerfaced.

Or maybe the kid was just bored.

"That true?"

Gray nodded slightly.

Gibbs sighed. He doubted that putting a boy in danger was really the only way. But he didn't have all of the information here, and he knew he had hardly any of the power. He turned his eyes back to CIA Boss. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

"Alright, moving on. As I was saying, we will be looking over your reports and may come to you with follow-up questions in the future. We'll also hope that you will share any new intelligence that you may come across concerning the gang's activities, if you happen to find yourselves investigating them in the future. In return we can make available to you, on request, satellite coverage of areas known and suspected to be used by the organization for its illegal activities. We will also make available any intelligence gathered by our agents, if it is deemed relative."

Tony huffed again.

"Fine," Gibbs said, indifferent. "I assume you want a rundown on how I got to the camp?"

"That would be an excellent place to start."

"I was knocked unconscious during the initial assault in Mexico. When I woke up I was on the floor of an SUV. After a few hours I was transferred to the hold of a boat. Boat was on the small side, maybe a forty footer. After two days at sea we anchored in a remote area. I was transferred from the boat to a small plane. The flight from the beach to the camp was about four hours. When I got to the camp I was transferred to the second floor of a shack. Six days later Gray climbed into the room."

Gibbs fell silent.

"Okay," CIA Boss said serenely. "Nice and concise. We've studied our coverage of the camp and don't appear to have caught your actual arrival there. Do you know what time of day it was?"

Gibbs thought a moment. He hadn't been able to see, but he remembered the sounds, and the sun on his skin. "It was day, not night. Not dawn and not evening."

"Your timeline would put you in the camp on . . . hm." CIA Boss turned to the young man sitting in front of the laptop. "Bring up the twenty-second, late afternoon."

An enormous flat screen descended from the ceiling a few feet back from the end of the table, where no chairs were set. After a few seconds of typing an image of the camp appeared. It was almost identical to the photograph that Kort had first shown Tony and Ziva less than two weeks ago.

The lone female anaylist spoke. "Close in on the airfield."

The crystal clear image focused on the airfield. She used a lazar pointer to indicate a section. "Here."

The photo pulled in again, showing a small plane with amazing clarity. Tony could see individual blades of grass growing up through a crack in the tarmac by the wheel.

"Could this be the aircraft?" the woman asked.

"Could be."

"How many flew with you?"

Gibbs paused. "I counted three. Could have been more."

"Would you be able to identify any of them?"

"I had a hood over my head, so no, not by sight. Maybe one of them by voice."

CIA Boss spoke up. "Pull out again."

The full photo of the camp reappeared.

"Were you interrogated while you were there?"

"Not really."

"And that means . . . what, exactly?" the supervisor probed.

"I didn't get the impression they were serious."

All four CIA officials looked at Gibbs incredulously. Finally CIA Boss nodded. "We have the medical report of your injuries from the doctor who treated you. But you're right. Their lead interrogator hadn't yet arrived. Would you be able to identify any of the men who questioned you?"

Gibbs shook his head. "I only saw the faces of the guards in the shack."

CIA Boss nodded. "Were any of the questioners women?"

"No."

"How many were there? Interrogators, I mean?"

"Two."

"Would you be able to identify their voices?"

"Probably."

"Did they seem to know who you were?"

Gibbs shrugged. "They didn't seem to. I can't know for sure."

"Never used your name? Never mentioned NCIS or your activities in Colombia in the early nineties?"

"No."

CIA Boss nodded. "We suspect no one at the camp really knew who you were, or your significance to Londono. Keeping your presence quiet would protect him from accusations of kidnapping a federal agent, since it would reduce rumors and anyone in the know to a minimum. Of course his secrecy may also have made your escape easier - no tell-tale security measures were put in place to imprison you. The effort to track you down once you escaped also seemed to be on the quiet end of the spectrum. If we didn't have the coincidence of his arrival at the camp along with his interrogator while you were there we wouldn't be entirely sure that he even knew of your capture. One thing we do know about him is that Londono is extraordinarily good at keeping his secrets secret."

Gibbs frowned. Londono was actually at the camp?

While the NCIS agents absorbed that, CIA Boss tilted his head at the lead analyst, indicating she could move the meeting along.

"Rodney," she said. "If you could bring up the twenty-ninth? Do we have late afternoon?"

The photo on the screen switched out, replaced by one that looked identical at first glance.

She leaned over the table to hand the pointer to Gray. "If you could outline your route."

He frowned at the clicker for a moment and then pointed the beam of light at the screen, circling one point at the perimeter. "In through the main gate." He moved the pointer toward a small building. "Waited there till dark."

"Hold on," CIA Boss broke in. "I understand you bought a pass into the camp?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

Gray glanced at Kort, who shifted slightly to meet the kid's eyes but was otherwise motionless. And silent.

Apparently communication via ESP worked for them.

After a moment Gray turned back to CIA Boss. "I located someone outside the gates who had a pass."

"Someone you knew?"

"Yeah."

"And the price?"

Gray looked to Kort again. The agent nodded slightly.

"Five hundred in US up front. And the location of one of the lonely fields."

The man sitting next to CIA Boss flipped quickly through the papers in front of him, finally running a finger down one of them.

"You haven't indicated on this list which one might be compromised."

"I didn't include it on the list."

CIA Boss and his more youthful cohort looked up at Gray, surprise etched on their faces. The three of them stared at each other silently for a long moment.

Gibbs smiled a little, on the inside anyway. Gray didn't back down for anyone.

"Any other fields you failed to mention?"

Kort spoke up. "None that are significant."

"That would be a yes."

"Of course there are more," Kort returned sharply. "He couldn't have swept them all if he had a month. Moving on?"

The analyst with the list of fields turned his wide-eyed gaze to Kort. He looked too shocked to speak.

Or, judging by the red flush creeping over his face, it was possible he was too angry. He seemed about to blow when Ziva broke in.

"Excuse me, 'lonely fields'? I am not familiar with that term."

CIA Boss glanced at her, then back at Kort and Gray. He waved a hand. "Let's move on. That second location at the camp, where you waited for nightfall. That's a storage shed of some kind?"

"Yeah."

"Storing what?" the woman asked.

"Replacement parts for the trucks and planes. Some tools."

CIA Boss smiled a little. "Any of them worth more than scrap metal by the time you left?"

"Probably not."

That got an eyebrow from Gibbs. Sabotage?

"Then what?"

Gray swept the pointer over several of the larger buildings. "After dark, to the hangars."

The official with the incomplete list of fields spoke up again, snide and definitely still testy. "And is the list of equipment there complete?"

There was a pause, like the room itself took a breath, and then Gray turned his head deliberately, looking at the man as he had not looked at any of the rest of them.

Oh, Tony thought. Uh-oh.

People who keep vipers for pets should know better than to poke them with sticks.

The slight motion of Gray's head drew all the focus in the room. It was slow and sharp, like a snake, like a bird of prey. And then he smiled, fake and cold, the relaxed grin of a predator. "As far as you know," he said.

Tony had thought from the beginning that Gray didn't like the NCIS team. That he was just barely tolerating the agents for some reason, some personal gain that they weren't aware of yet. They'd spent days in the jungle together after all, and unless he was delirious with fever the kid hardly spoke to them. Well, beyond the occasional threat to Tony's life. It seemed obvious at the time that the kid wasn't a fan.

He could see now, though, that Gray didn't really have a problem with him or Ziva or Gibbs. Not a serious one anyway.

Compared to the look he was giving the CIA suit he'd been bosom buddies with NCIS from the get-go.

Gibbs watched the scene carefully. Gray wasn't just standing his ground here – he was hostile. It was one of the rare moments he'd seen him display any emotion at all, if hostility could be called an emotion.

The CIA analysts didn't seem to care too much about the cold attitude and sarcasm. And why would they? The kid was obviously a gold mine of information. Just as much gold as information, if Gibbs understood that byplay about the fields.

The woman cleared her throat and spoke up again. "Most of the trucks left the hangars after your escape but didn't get more than a few miles. None of the aircraft even left the bays. Are they permanently disabled?"

The NCIS agents shifted to stare at Gray.

"No, not permanently. If so many of them hadn't broken down at once they probably wouldn't have noticed it."

The woman nodded. "Worn fuel lines and such?"

"Yeah."

"So that's why we didn't meet many patrols on the way out," Tony said. "First you broke the truck parts, and then you broke the trucks."

Gray's eyes slid over Dinozzo's as he turned back up to the screen.

"After the hangars, to the guard houses." He ran the pointer over a line of small buildings. "He was in . . ." Gray studied the line. "This one. Only two guards, both on the lower floor. Cut the power and waited for one of them to step out to fix it. Went in through the upper window, disabled the interior guard. Waited for the second to reenter and disabled him." His pointer swept back. "From the guard house to the hangars –"

The woman frowned. "Disabled? Could you be more specific?"

"Tranqed."

The woman continued to look at Gray, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"He shot them up with tranquilizers," Gibbs spoke wryly from the other side of the table.

"Oh," she blinked. "Okay. So. Back to the hangars?"

"Where I met with our ride out. Then back to the guard house to wait for the truck."

CIA Boss shuffled some papers. "Your ride out. This would be . . . Mateo's father?"

"Grandfather," Kort cut in.

Testy CIA spoke up again, still testy. Clearly the man was an idiot, and had all the self-preservation and social skills of a fruit fly. "Anything else for Mateo's grandfather?"

Gray looked at him, face so expressionless it was actually creepy, until the suit shifted uncomfortably. Then the kid leaned forward a little, seriously, like he was about to share a really good secret. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Testy CIA's face edged a bit more toward apoplectic. He opened his mouth but was cut off before he could speak.

"Another field?" CIA Boss sighed.

Gray nodded, eyes still locked on Testy, as if he didn't want to miss the show. The analyst, unable to help himself what with the fruit fly brain, sat forward with a hiss. "You don't have a clue - those fields are worth a million a piece!"

The kid grinned caustically. "You know, I think that one was actually closer to ten mil."

"_You_ – CIA assets aren't yours to hand out!" CIA Asshole was now red in the face and just short of shouting, hands jerking through the air. "We didn't clear any payments for this little – "

Gibbs tuned the words out and watched the man calmly, deceptively still. More than ready to intervene if Asshole actually lost it and made the first millimeter of a move. Not that he thought it likely the guy would get physical . . . unless you counted the little flecks of spit making their way across the table toward Gray. That was way more physical than anyone would ever want to get with this guy . . .

Though it _would_ be satisfying to have an excuse, take a swing . . . Gibbs would hit him just below the jaw, a right hook into the soft under carriage of his skull. Or maybe straight in the mouth, that would be good, take out a few teeth . . . then again, this had been a fairly extensive daydream so far and the guy was still yapping. A jaw wired shut might be just the thing. A one-two combo then, right-left, watch the knuckles on the teeth . . .

He'd have to move fast, if he had a hope of beating Ziva to it. A glance to his right showed her eyes had narrowed into what were, in his experience, lethal slits, and she'd already subtly rebalanced her weight . . .

Fortunately - or unfortunately? - their services weren't required.

"Would you shut up, Hogan?" Kort's derisive voice was just as bored as it always was, only louder, to drown out the other man's rant. "Nothing on Calera land is a CIA asset. Unless you were hoping to end up with a few personal assets?"

Asshole – Hogan, apparently – turned to Kort furiously. "_You_ accuse _me_ - it's your goddamn – "

Tony was really hoping for a fist fight, but CIA Boss finally looked up from his papers at that point. "Hogan, simmer down. Kort, don't use Hogan's name in front of the guests. You know how it makes him nervous."

CIA Boss peered over his reading glasses to sweep the table with his gaze, making eye contact briefly with the NCIS agents and Gray. "I apologize. They get a little cranky before lunch. You were saying, Gray?"

Gray shrugged, cool as ever. More than immune to Hogan's glare, indifferent to the tacit approval of the man's anger, given how long that rant was allowed to go on. "I waited with Agent Gibbs at the guard house for the truck. Made it into the truck and left through the main gate. Met up with the other agents."

Silence.

"That's it," the kid said.

Not exactly. Gibbs glanced between the thus-far rational woman and CIA Boss. "Do we know who was in that helicopter?"

The woman looked to her boss, then back to Gibbs when the man nodded. "Yes. Roberto Londono, one of his interrogators, and several bodyguards. I'd say you got out of there just in time."

Tony sat forward, glancing from Kort to the woman. "That was Londono? We were told he doesn't go to the camps."

"Very rarely, these days. Seems he made an exception for Gibbs." CIA Boss looked back down at his file. "Perhaps killing most of his adoptive family pissed the man off."

"Great," Tony grunted, and sat back again in his chair.

"On the other hand," the man continued, "he didn't have you outright killed when he had the chance, or even tortured. Much. Any idea why, Agent Gibbs?"

"No."

"Information from prior missions that he might be after?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Hm."

It wasn't a _Hm, he must have been waiting for when he could watch_. It was a _Hm, I'm pretty sure there's information here he's after. Either you don't know what it is or you don't want to tell me any more than you want to tell Londono_.

"Alright. Turning back to the helicopter." CIA Boss peered over the top of his specs to pin Dinozzo and then David to their chairs. "That machine met a spectacular end. You intentionally shot at it with a . . ." The man glanced back down at his papers. "A grenade launcher?"

The two of them looked at each other quickly, figuring out who would speak.

"Yes," Tony said, since he was the senior field agent. And his citizenship status wasn't quite so . . . new.

"And the labs?"

"That was accidental," Ziva spoke up. She had been the one doing the shooting, after all. Tony had only been loading. "We chose the guard tower as a primary target and the helicopter as a secondary. The first shot at the helicopter went wide and hit one of the lab buildings instead."

"Well," CIA Boss said neutrally, if with a little sigh, "you put a dent in their operations for a short time, anyway." He turned to the tech guy. "Bring up the day after."

A new photo came up, shifting as the tech closed in on the labs. The charred remains of the guard tower and helicopter were both visible, along with what was left of the smoke-blackened buildings. The chemical fires must have been flash burns, big explosions that burned out quickly, since the buildings were still intact.

Gray had been silent up to that point except when asked a question – his default behavior unless he was manipulating agents, as far as Gibbs could tell. Now he turned and said something into Kort's ear.

Kort nodded and spoke up. "That's an afternoon shot, isn't it?"

"Yes," the woman this time. "It's the clearest that we have. Earlier images are obscured by smoke and some cloud cover."

"I want copies of anything you have from earlier in the day."

Asshole snorted and twitched in his seat.

The woman glanced at her boss, who looked up from his papers at Kort. "You know we aren't allowing pictures of that camp to leave the building. What's on your mind?"

Okay, Tony thought, eyes sliding from Kort to CIA Boss and back again. Two things here. First of all, Kort had given them, his NCIS nemisis team, a photo of that camp. And Kort knew that McGee and Abby had images too. Apparently that was Not Approved. Saying something was not to leave the building was a pretty serious barrier, not something you screwed around with. But Kort had screwed with it, and apparently risked CIA wrath to do so.

Why? To give him and Ziva a better understanding of where Gibbs was, and what was going on in the camp?

That would be generous. More generous than Kort.

More likely it was just to convince the two NCIS agents that Kort's information was real, that he knew what he was talking about. Still, it was a risk. Either Kort was hoping they would never find out just how Not Approved it was or he was trusting them not to screw him over with the knowledge. Which would be weird.

Second, CIA Boss was being nice to Kort. That was definitely weird. Kort was acting like the same arrogant prick in here that Tony had observed him to be everywhere else. Why was CIA Boss being nice?

Kort didn't hesitate. "Fine. We'll review them here. After the debrief."

CIA Boss's gaze moved from Kort to Gray. "Mind telling us what you're looking for?"

There was silence for a beat too long while Gray returned the man's stare. Finally the kid tilted his head and said, "I want to see how much damage the fire did."

Apparently CIA Boss had the patience of Buddha. He didn't say anything, just looked at them, Kort and Gray, and waited. Probably for reasoning that didn't smell quite so obviously of bullshit.

Gray and Kort stared blankly back, patient too, in a calculating way. They were hunters after all.

The three of them seemed prepared to play chicken for hours.

"He's looking for the dead," Gibbs said.

He watched the kid's eyes move back to the screen, away from the people staring at him, studying the camp again with that same blank face.

"The dead?" the woman said blankly.

"Bodies would have been pulled out first. They must have been cleared entirely by the time this photo was taken," Gibbs nodded at the screen. "Since there aren't any there."

A strange, instant heaviness come over Tony, disorienting and total, like opening your eyes to discover you were moving underwater. "You think there were people in there? It was 0100."

A beat of silence that, oddly, Gibbs stepped up to fill in a quiet voice. "Those labs never close, Dinozzo."

CIA Boss tapped his fingers on the papers in front of him, then shoved the file forward a bit so that he could rest his elbows on the table and lean toward Gray. He spoke to him earnestly, even though the kid's attention never left the screen on the other side of the room.

Gibbs gave the guy points for at least making an effort at sincerity.

"Gray. We can give you time to go through images after the meeting if you prefer. But it's often valuable to share information with the group as a whole. That's why we insist on debriefing together. The more information we all have, the better."

Gray's pale eyes flicked from the screen to CIA Boss, then over the NCIS agents on the opposite side of the table before finally landing on Kort. He shrugged.

"He's waited almost a week already," Kort said, low and irritable. "If we can just get it over with?"

CIA Boss nodded and raised his eyebrows at the woman. "Well," she said uncertainly, "we don't have constant surveillance in place over the area. But we do have hardcopy of this sector at regular intervals . . ." She pulled a thick binder out of her briefcase and handed it to Kort, who passed it on to Gray. "The day in question is the 1200 series."

The photos were marked with numbers at the bottom. Gray flipped quickly to the right section and went through them one by one, glancing at each before turning them over rapidly. Eventually he paused and pulled a photo off of the stack, pushing it back toward the woman. He pulled the next photo, the next – four more, then closed the binder and shoved it back to her.

Gibbs noted that the kid's hands were still creased with stubborn ground-in dirt, the kind that burrowed in after a hard week out there, and didn't come off unless you were willing to take the skin with it. His own hands were the same.

The woman looked the pulled photos over briefly and made note of the numbers before handing the images to the tech. He called up the first one from his digital cache instantly and zoomed into the quadrant of the camp that held the labs. In this image the shells of two of the buildings were still smoking heavily and the light was a little gray, even in the context of the black-and-white picture. It must have been close to dawn. The wind was pushing the smoke south, and along the northern edge of the destroyed lab there were rows of dark smudges.

Kort spoke up again, voice clipped. "This will be easier if Gray can manipulate the view himself. Unless you want to be here for hours?"

"Sure." CIA Boss stood up. "Gray, why don't you switch seats with me. Then you can direct our tech here to whatever you want to examine more closely."

The two switched seats and Gray pointed silently to the screen of the laptop. Up on the plasma the image narrowed in on the smudges, again and again, and then again, until their faces began to emerge.

The image scrolled across the first row, pausing on each upper body before moving on. The only sound in the room the keystrokes of the tech as he manipulated the picture. Some were burned terribly, but most seemed to have died from smoke inhalation or the shock of the explosions, their faces and clothes blackened but intact.

Ziva would not let herself look away from the remains. Beside her Tony was rigid.

She knew the guards in the tower would die. But it had never occurred to her that civilians would be in the labs in the dead of night. No light had seeped from them . . . but then, there were no windows in the structures. If there were, perhaps the people on the screen in front of her would still be alive. As the faces scrolled before them the reality of what they had done seemed to sink like a sickness into her bones.

She didn't need to put it into words - Ziva looked at him, and he knew what she was asking. Gibbs never took his eyes off the screen. "They were probably locked in and got trapped." He kept his voice calm and very low, and it seemed faint over the buzzing in her ears. He paused. "They restrict movement in the labs to maximize productivity. And to stop people from stealing the merchandise."

The tech went through every face, then back over four that Gray pointed out. Two of the images clicked back and forth several times, from the face to a wider shot that included the bodies next to it.

Using the surroundings as some kind of scale, to estimate height, Ziva thought. It was likely from the difference in size that the smaller of those corpses was not fully grown. Many of the workers were women or rather young. Perhaps the men were more usually in the fields.

Finally the image pulled back completely. And then moved to another, obviously taken sightly later. The rows had grown.

There was less smoke in this picture, but the wind had shifted to the west and some of the bodies were obscured by clouds. Gray began again with the new corpses, and the table watched the gray faces of the dead flow by.


	29. Free

**Chapter 29: Free**

They realized Gray was done when he stood up.

Gibbs glanced at his watch. It had only been half an hour. It felt like a year.

CIA Boss and the kid switched seats again, but just before he sat down the boss hesitated. "Anyone like a break before we continue?"

He eyed Tony and Ziva, but no one moved, or spoke. Gibbs taught his team to do the job, and right now the job was this meeting.

Gibbs had known all along, obviously, or at least suspected. Gray knew from the beginning. But they had gone on, both of them, because that's what you did.

"I suppose we'll continue then. Anything significant to the larger operation about the remains from the fire, Gray?"

Gray was either thinking about not answering at all or taking a long time to organize his thoughts. "Weren't any guards, that I could see," he said finally. "Was all workers."

CIA Boss moved on. "We understand that you were separated at one point, the NCIS agents captured by a patrol. Was there anything of note before that? Agent Gibbs, would you like to pick up the narrative?"

Gibbs hesitated, strangely. Tony and Ziva glanced at him quickly. Gibbs didn't hesitate.

"We came across a two-man patrol not far from the camp," he said. "Agent David went in as a diversion and Agent Dinozzo and I approached from behind. There was risk of detection by other patrols if we used firearms, so we took them by hand."

"And the guards?"

Gibbs kept his gaze on CIA Boss's. But he could sense Gray's eyes on him.

It was ridiculous, feeling uneasy about killing two men after the grotesque parade of death they just sat through. But he was.

"We didn't get to them fast enough," Gibbs said. "They saw David.**" **Could have provided a description of her. It seemed obvious that Londono had a grudge against Gibbs, but no one else on the NCIS team – as far as the cartel knew – had been dragged into it.

CIA Boss nodded, seeming to understand Gibbs' reluctance to spell it out. "And then?"

"Nothing until we ran across the larger patrol."

"Right. If you would describe that incident?"

Gibbs fixed his eyes on the man and talked, steadily, pretty much more than either of his agents had ever heard him say all at once before.

"We were single file in a trench, came to a point with a high bluff to the right. Ambush, eight men, M4s all around, one machine gun. Gray went into the brush. We were disarmed and taken back up to a truck on a road, maybe two miles out. Four hours in they stopped and dropped two of the men. Drove on until sunset, stopped for the night at a clearing. Chained us to the truck. Patrol camped by the river, outside the clearing. Gray took two guards by the truck with a knife and was wounded. The last of that fight was loud enough to be heard by the rest of them. He took cover, took two guards that came up from the camp. Swung around to the camp itself and the remaining pair of guards." Gibbs readjusted his shoulders a little, like he was checking to be sure his posture was still ramrod Marine. It was. "Despite being wounded he led us to safety and called for the bird back to your base the next night. If he was eligible I would recommend him for the Medal of Honor for that action. We didn't meet up with anything else on the way out."

The CIA people didn't understand the significance of that sermon. Its length or its quiet praise. Tony thought he might get the same compliment if he singlehandedly saved the entire nation from some spectacular collapse. But even so, it wouldn't be delivered like that.

CIA Boss just nodded and flipped through some images in front of him. "Were you recognized by the patrol?"

"No."

"How about you, Gray?"

"No."

"But there are two guards that separated from the patrol and presumably made it back to Camp Six. They'll have identified all of you." CIA Boss nodded toward the agents.

"No."

They looked at Gray, and CIA Boss's eyebrows went up fast. "No?"

"I took care of them. As Gibbs says."

"They're dead?"

"Yeah."

They all took a moment to adjust to that. Two more. Gibbs actually felt a physical tightening in his chest, something black clawing at his heart.

"Okay. That's good news for Agents David and Dinozzo, at least." CIA Boss frowned and leaned into the table again, glancing from Gray to Gibbs. Not sure where the answer might be. "I am surprised that the guards weren't keeping a closer watch on their prisoners, since they knew one of the group was unaccounted for."

The man waited, looking at Gray and Gibbs, and then Kort, but there wasn't any indication they were going to say anything. It was Ziva who spoke up. "They did not consider him to be a threat."

CIA Boss glanced sharply at her. "And you know this how?"

"The guard who went after Gray and the leader of the patrol discussed it when they first caught us. Gray was not carrying a rifle or any other visible weapon, while the rest of us were heavily armed. As a result, and because of his youth, they assumed that he was not armed at all. Gray also apparently left us behind. The patrol speculated that he was not really part of our group. They seemed to think he was a local boy we hired or bribed as a guide, or even in some way forced into our service."

"Hmm." CIA Boss thought that over.

The agents were a little confused by his confusion. What other explanation could there be? Did he think that the patrol had recognized Gray and let him go? That Gray then came back and slaughtered them all anyway?

"There is also the fact that we were in a truck," Tony said, voice flat. Ziva seemed to do this sort of thing effortlessly, at least she seemed to, from where Tony was sitting. She always had. But his own head felt strange, out of control, like a rubber ball careening down an empty street - still reeling under the weight of dead faces.

CIA Boss encouraged Tony to go on. Tony cleared his throat, shoved the horror away, and came back to himself. Back to the surreal reality of life goes on, for some at least, played out in a colorless conference room. The room they were in now was the total opposite of the jungle. Even the arguments here were clean, bloodless. And yet life there laughed and bled and died by the whim of men gathered here, or in rooms just like this one. Tony was sure Londono had a fleet of them.

And Tony was one of those men now, no denying that. He buried it, deep and fast, and swung back to to the present. To all its beautiful distractions.

"I guess you aren't curious about this," he said, voice steady now, "since you haven't asked. But Gray was on foot while we were in a truck. We weren't exactly hitting Autobahn speeds but we were going faster than feet go, especially through terrain like that. Unless the guards were in on the secret too, whatever that secret is, they wouldn't have expected him to be able to catch up."

It was clear to everyone in the room that "secret" was one of Dinozzo's least favorite words.

"Ah," CIA Boss smiled a little. "Good point. We have some imagery from NCIS here that may help to clear up that mystery for you."

More shuffling.

"Gray appears on these screen shots of Calera land as a sort of blue cloud. Apparently you were . . . infused with low-level radiation?" CIA Boss turned to Gray.

Gray looked at Tony and quirked an eyebrow.

"A completely harmless isotope that we could track but would be undetectable to anyone searching for a bug. A safety measure for our youngest recruit." Tony smiled brilliantly at Gray, and then at CIA Boss.

The man frowned down at the photos. "That's . . . interesting. I haven't seen a similar method employed here. Would be a great method of tracking unfriendlies," the man mused. "A bug they couldn't see or get rid of. Of course, if the Hague found out you were irradiating people without their consent they'd invite you for a visit and never let you leave."

He smiled briefly at a frozen Tony, then went back to his pictures. "These images show Gray taking to one of the waterways almost immediately after your capture. The river is a more direct route to where you ended up, and of course in that kind of terrain a good swimmer will move even faster than a good runner. Presumably you knew where the river would meet up with the road the patrol was using?"

Gray just looked at him. Kid was quieter than Gibbs on a quiet day.

"You then left the river and moved fairly rapidly on foot, following the truck as well as the men that split off from the group. You should go out for track, Gray."

Kort made an odd sort of snorting sound, a choked-off laugh. Gray grinned at him, cold eyes transformed in that instant to something entirely different.

Gibbs chalked another emotion onto the tally. They'd just shared an inside joke, apparently. Whatever it was, Gray thought it was funny.

Meanwhile Tony shuddered in actual, honest-to-god horror. "You_ swam _in that? And nothing ate you?"

Gibbs' eyebrows came together a little. "I thought the waterways were too exposed to travel on." It was a little absurd to be concerned now that the route hadn't been safe. Still . . .

Gray shrugged. "They are, for you. I'm not a threat."

Right. The kid told him before, but Gibbs hadn't understood it then. _Más seguro, sin_. Safer without the rifle. It's what kept him off the radar of that patrol.

The man at the front of the table leaned back in his chair and stared into nothing for a minute, turning the pen that he held but never used over and around in his hands. Then he focused on Gray.

"We're grateful that you went back for the NCIS agents and were able to free them. But I know you were encouraged not to engage. To withdraw if you were discovered by a patrol."

The agents' eyes flicked to Kort. His face was back to its normal indifferent distain, all traces of humor gone.

"And I happen to know you haven't gone out of your way to help people trapped in that jungle before. I'd like to know why you did this time around."

Gray returned the man's gaze steadily. He looked as if he wasn't going to answer. And then . . . he shrugged, as if it was no big deal. "Agent Gibbs and I had a heart-to-heart," he said.

CIA Boss frowned at the cryptic answer and turned his keen gaze to Gibbs, hoping for more. "Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs shook his head. _No clue._

CIA Boss narrowed his eyes, but closed the folder in front of him. "Alright. Well, if there's nothing else I believe we're done here. Again, we may be in touch to follow up on details in your reports, when we have them."

The man was about as subtle as the alligator Tony was sure would eat _him_ if he ever went swimming in the Amazon. Seemed he wanted those reports yesterday.

"Agents Gibbs, Dinozzo, David - our men can escort you to your homes or to an NCIS safe house, if you prefer. I believe your director would like to see you tomorrow, after you've had a chance to rest."

Dinozzo and Ziva slumped slightly in relief, and Tony took a moment out of his day, right then, to bless Leon Vance from his great bull head right down to his probably bully toes. They could go home.

CIA Boss smiled, tell-tale eyes crinkling. "Thank you for bearing with us. Welcome home."

Kort and Gray were up from their seats and out the door like twin shots. It was the last the agents saw of either of them for months.

Gibbs followed, almost as fast.

When he got home he found a thin brown envelope with the CIA seal sitting on his work bench, 'Londono' scrawled across it in familiar black lettering.

A gift – another one – from Kort.

There were also four shiny new bottles of bourbon, lined up on the tabletop like soldiers on parade. From the team, he guessed. But why four?

Gibbs shook his head, poured himself a mugful, and drank it down, staring at the folder and thinking ominously on one of his father's favorite sayings.

'There's nothing in this world that's free.'

End Part One

* * *

><p><em>an: But no worries. Part Two will continue in the usual space and time._


	30. Rule Fourteen

Part II

**Chapter 30: Rule Fourteen**

On the way home from Langley Gibbs borrowed his CIA chaffeur's cell to call Abby and forbid her to come to his house. He might never hear from the Caleras again. Or they might come calling with grenade launchers of their own. Until he knew for sure his place was off-limits to everyone but him.

To make up for it he got up early the next morning and brought her a Caf-Pow in the lab first thing.

She hugged him for six solid minutes. That wasn't too surprising. But she didn't say a word the entire time, which was very un-Abby.

When he pulled back there were tears running down her face, silent ones, blurring the mascara under her eyes.

"Hey, Abs," he smiled, even laughed a little, going for reassuring. "I'm okay."

As it turned out, laughter right then might not have been the smartest move he ever made. But she started talking, all right - like he was the stupidest creature ever to trod the floor of her lab. "Yeah, Gibbs. _Now_. And _barely_. What's going on? Who's after you? I mean I can guess who's after you, but what happened to make you think they're here? Did they do something? Already?" She looked at him suspiciously while she caught her breath. "Why aren't I allowed at your house? I already went there, you know. To replace the booze."

Ah ha. They'd drunk all his liquor while he was out of town. And four of them had been around to replace it before he got back.

"Nothing's happened," he shrugged. "But until I know for sure what's going on no one is allowed at my house except me."

She opened her mouth to protest.

"They're not pushing me out of my house, Abby."

She paused. Abby had always been smart enough to pick her battles, and anyone who thought they had a prayer of prying an unwilling Gibbs out of his own house better show up in a tank. Telling him to stay safe would be equally useless.

But she wasn't totally without weapons of her own. She might not be able to keep him out of danger, but she could have his back - forensically speaking, anyway - as he went charging in.

"Will you give me extra work to make up for it?" _I want to help._

He wiped at one smudged cheek with his thumb. "Count on it."

"Who's _they_, Gibbs?" She'd shifted her hands down to his left arm and hung on for dear life. "And by that I mean, how do we make them go away?"

"That's what you're going to help me figure out, Abs. You and McGee." He handed her a few pages taken from the folder Kort gave him. "Start with this guy."

"Londono," she said. "You – um. He was adopted, and his three brothers were – "

"Yeah, Abby. I know."

"And so does he, now. Because of my report."

She was too still.

Abby was never really still. Not unless she was absorbed in science or paralyzed by misery.

"Not your fault, Abby."

He waited until she got it together and nodded back at him.

"You and McGee find out everything you can. I mean everything. Don't let any of the research be traced back to you. Work on it when you have time, between your regular stuff. Bring me what you've got whenever you get it."

She smiled, squeezed his arm again, bounced on her heels.

It felt good to see her - it always did. Abby was solid. Reliable. And so purely honest, in a way none of the rest of them really were, for one reason or another. She'd always struck him as the people equivalent of ironwood - Lignum vitae - the toughest around, and it made him smile just to see it.

"You always know when I've got something, Gibbs," she grinned back.

He kissed her on the cheek and extracted his arm, turning on his heel to walk away. Start the day.

But Gibbs only made it halfway to the door before Abby cut him off and wrapped him up in another hug, one that felt more like a tackle than anything else - and miraculously avoided the worst of his back. He frowned, sure she'd somehow gotten her hands on the medical reports.

This one lasted under a minute. Then she stepped back and stared into his eyes.

She wasn't crying now. But she wasn't smiling either. His gut prepared to flip over.

"Abs?"

"I understand, Gibbs. Why you did it. I know - " Her eyes drifted down to the top button on his shirt, but her words were fast and steady. "When you lose everything that matters and you're angry. And all you want to do is destroy what's left and you never thought they'd let you get away with it, did you?"

What the hell? He had actual things to do today. "Abby. I need to get upstairs."

He tried to turn toward the door again, but her hands closed over his shoulders before he'd managed it. "It was just you before," she went on relentlessly. "When I sent in the report. And that was bad. You know I didn't like it, but I respected it Gibbs. Because it was just you. It was your choice. You wanted – you didn't even _try_."

When he finally looked at her Abby's eyes were huge, solemn. Steely.

"But now it's the whole team. Tony and Ziva. And Tim. McGee would have gone after you too you know, if he wasn't more dangerous with a network connection than a hundred agents with guns. They'd die for you Gibbs. They almost did! I know what happened, I mean sort of, with that patrol – "

Gibbs pulled back again, stronger this time, but she hung grimly on. "Abby – "

She steamrolled over him. "But you're going to fight now. You're not going to – " she hesitated, and squeezed his shoulders even tighter. Abby had a very good grip. "Mexico's over. Okay? It's not just _you_ anymore. I know what you lost but you've got – other things now. This time you'll fight," she said firmly. "To stay with us. Right?"

She looked at him and waited. Gibbs never lied to her. Never.

"We're all going to fight, Abby," he finally said. He just wanted to get out of there. He admired Abby's honesty, sure. That didn't mean he always enjoyed it. "To get the bad guys," he added pointedly.

Because he never lied to her. And the plain truth was that the job was his first priority. Not the team.

Usually.

Almost always. Because they were here to do a _job_, for fuck's sake, a damn important one. A job they would all give their lives for, so how could it not come first? How he felt about them shouldn't matter. Couldn't matter.

Precisely why he hated conversations like this one. Useless questions. Gibbs sighed, and raised his eyebrows at Abby in an _are we done I've got things to do today_ kind of way.

To get the bad guys? Well. That wasn't exactly what she'd said. But as long as the end result was the same it was an acceptable compromise. She didn't care about the words - Gibbs was never very good at those anyway. His language was action, what he _did_. As long as he'd given up the idea of throwing himself on the sword of Mexican justice, aka Paloma' Reynosa's revenge . . .

"Okay," she said, and hugged him again. But only a micro-hug, only for a second.

Then she shoved him out and whirled away. Already working.

Because Abby was smart - really smart, not just book smart. And she knew, always, that doing the job and doing it well was the best way to have her team's back.

For Abby there was no 'the job and the team.' For her the job _was_ the team. One could never come before the other.

**x**

Gibbs went from the lab straight up to Vance's office and sat down with the man at his conference table.

Vance gave him a once over. "Looks like you've dropped a few pounds, Gibbs."

"Well thanks."

"No. I mean you should eat a few steaks, man."

Gibbs smiled. "Tell that to Ducky."

"Yeah. And my wife."

Vance leaned forward, resting an arm on the table. He and Gibbs didn't have a chit-chat type of relationship, which was fine with him - he could cut to the chase. "So. The Reynosas are pretty busy with the heat they brought on themselves from the kidnapping in Mexico. If our sources within the Mexican government are right Paloma doesn't have time to worry about you right now. Unfortunately some drug lords are smarter than others, and so far Londono hasn't been stupid enough to draw unwanted attention. You know anything about the Calera cartel yet? Anything current?"

Gibbs sighed. "Not really. Just getting started."

"Think they know Dinozzo or David helped to spring you?"

"Not sure. Maybe not."

"What about security? Is this guy coming up here after you?"

"No idea."

Vance leaned back in his seat a bit, trying to shift to a more comfortable position.

Impossible when the topic was this discomforting, but his body never seemed to stop trying. "You do realize how many assassins this guy is supposed to have on his books?"

"Yeah, I've got some idea of that."

"And that's not even counting the death squads."

Gibbs shrugged carelessly. "Doubt I'm high up enough on his to-do list to warrant my very own death squad."

Vance shook his head. He was not feeling Gibbs' lighthearted take on the situation. "But you don't want a safe house. Or a security detail."

"No. No need."

Vance studied him. "Alright. I won't force it on you unless we have evidence that they've followed you back to DC to finish what they started."

"Okay." _Like hell._

Vance grinned a little. Gibbs seldom bothered to make himself hard to read, even when he was obviously disregarding orders. Vance had learned not to trouble himself about it unless it involved more of his people than just Gibbs. He wasn't the man's babysitter, after all.

The director relaxed finally, slouching back in his chair. Gibbs had been offered protection and refused it. Official business was over.

"So why'd that kid come after you?"

Gibbs shook his head. "I have no earthly idea."

"Kort wasn't too pleased."

Gibbs frowned. "Kort's the one who set it up."

"No," Vance waved a hand. "He set up springing you from the camp, when everything was supposed to be neat and quiet. I'm talking about the kid deciding to come after the team. When you'd been captured by that patrol."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. Clueless.

"Kort was not happy." Vance's tone suggested that 'not happy' was an understatement. "I got the impression he didn't want the kid involved in anything violent."

Gibbs rubbed a thumb over his forehead and sighed. "Yeah."

"When we were sure Gray was headed back to rescue you Kort said, and I quote, 'He usually doesn't.'"

Gibbs looked up. "He _usually_ doesn't?"

"That's what the man said."

Gibbs thought that over, shrugged. "Actually, Kort's supervisor at the CIA said something similar. I have no idea, Leon. I asked Gray why he did it. He's not exactly informative on the subject. Or any other subject, for that matter," he added drily.

Vance took in Gibbs' disgruntled expression and chuckled a little, deep and low. When Gibbs glared at him the director threw back his head and laughed. Gibbs waited, glare turned ferocious, as his boss got his breath back under control.

But Leon had always been immune to Gibbs' glare. "Well, I know how frustrating it can be to work with someone like that, Gibbs." And then, consolingly, "You've got my sympathies."

Gibbs just kept himself from rolling his eyes. "We done?"

Vance nodded, sobering fast. "I don't care what you put in whatever report you send to the CIA, but I want a rundown of everything that happened down there from you and Dinozzo and David. You can brief me on Monday, when you know more." He raised an eyebrow. "If you survive till Monday."

Gibbs grinned and sauntered out.

**x**

The Caleras didn't come after Gibbs. Not that weekend, anyway.

It was Ducky who figured out why, with just the information Abby gathered on Londono and the thin psychological profile buried in the file they got from Kort.

"It couldn't be more simple," Ducky said. "He doesn't want Gibbs."

They were sitting in Vance's office. Vance, Ducky, Gibbs, Dinozzo, Ziva, and McGee. It was the following Monday, and time for the director's update, but they hadn't gotten far on the answers front. The Calera organization really was good at keeping its dark underbelly secret.

In fact, Ducky seemed to be the only one who had anything new.

"How could he not want him?" Tony scoffed. "Londono took him off of the Reynosas and then flew to the camp just to meet with Gibbs. He brought along his torture expert, Ducky."

"Ah. Well, yes and no. Londono is a business man. I believe he flew to the camp to interview a federal agent with years of experience in Colombia, Mexico, and the ports of the United States. A fount of useful information in his line of work, if you will. That this agent happened to be Gibbs mattered not at all."

Ziva glanced around the table, then back to the doctor. "Ducky. Gibbs killed the man's family."

"Yes. And to you or me that would be something quite significant. Paloma Reynosa, certainly – " Ducky glanced at Vance, who raised his eyebrows. "Erm, well, Ms. Reynosa blames Gibbs for her father's death and has carried a grudge against him for decades. But I would wager that Londono does not harbor any particular resentment against Gibbs. He feels no ties to the old Calera family, or to any other for that matter. He does not bother to carry personal grudges. The man has no loyalties, no long term attachments except to his business and political empire. He is cool, methodical, and at the moment seems to have only two goals. One is courting entry into a business partnership with the Reynosa cartel in Mexico. And the second, expanding his political power and reputation as a legitimate tycoon in South American circles."

Ducky smiled, a little sly. "Paloma went out of her way to hand Gibbs over as a gift to the man because . . . well, she is a rather clever woman."

Gibbs sat back in his chair at that, looking enlightened. Vance made a little "huh" noise and did the same. The three younger agents looked at the expressions on the older men and frowned.

"Care to share?" Tony prompted.

Ducky turned to him energetically, delighted as always to explain. "At first, perhaps, Ms. Reynosa really did want to use Gibbs as a mule. She must have known he would resist, and looked forward to corrupting him. But Franks and Gibbs and the director were able to outsmart her there, eventually using diplomatic pressure to force her and her brother to back off. And it was then that Ms. Reynosa thought of a much better use for Gibbs – one that would give her true power in the future of Mexico's drug trade," Ducky said significantly. "She conjured up evidence in an old cold case, forced Gibbs' return to Mexico, kidnapped him, and sold him to Londono." Ducky smiled as he made his triumphant final point.

Tony glanced at Ziva and McGee. Reassured they were as lost as he was, he looked to Vance and Gibbs.

The bosses considered the younger agents in an indulgent, smug sort of way that made Ziva long for a training session in the gym.

"What did the doctor say Londono wants?" Vance reminded them.

"First, to expand his illegal business into Mexico, and second, to expand his legitimate wealth and political power in Colombia," McGee said promptly.

"So she sold Gibbs to Londono to curry favor with him," Ziva mused. "She knew that Gibbs would suffer before being killed and she was also able to cement her business relationship with the Calera cartel. That is . . . two birds with one stone, yes?" Ziva looked at Vance a little cockily.

There was a moment of silence.

"And?" Gibbs said.

"Oh." That was Tony. Gibbs tilted his head toward the others, and Tony looked at Tim and Ziva to explain. "She'd cement the business relationship, yeah. That's the carrot. But she got a stick out of the deal too, because she'd also get some leverage over a rival cartel. The second thing Londono wants is political power, remember? He wants to run in legitimate circles . . ." he spread his hands.

"She kept evidence of Gibbs being in Londono's possession," McGee realized. "She could blackmail him with the crime of murdering a federal agent. Just like she used evidence in her father's cold case to try to blackmail Gi– "

McGee somehow managed to swallow his gold star answer.

"Precisely," Ducky said. "She thinks she can manipulate her latest rival. But you see, she does not, in fact, understand Roberto Londono. Paloma took a risk in going after Gibbs because her grudge against him is personal – she wants revenge, and is blinded by her hatred for him. She assumes that Londono is driven by similar motives. That he will now pursue Gibbs just as she has. But Roberto Londono is not ruled by passions like revenge, and he does not act blindly. Indeed, he is exceedingly cautious. He wants the information that a man in Gibbs' position can provide, yes. But he has no need to chase Gibbs down to get it. Especially as doing so could link him to a high-profile American crime and risk the protection from American prosecution that he apparently enjoys. There are other ways of getting information, and now that Jethro has escaped his clutches there are also ways that are much less likely to endanger his political ambitions. He may feel some curiosity about the man who killed his brothers, but I imagine Londono's real reason for coming out to the camp when Gibbs was there was to glean as much of Gibbs' information as he could. He wanted to be sure there would be no need of a repeat of this crime, and he wanted to minimize the number of people who knew what he was up to. So you see, he was not taking a risk, as Paloma Reyonsa thought he was, in order to extract revenge. To his mind he was actually minimizing risk, gaining a foothold in Mexico from Paloma and valuable information from Gibbs, all at the same time." Ducky smiled appreciatively. "Rather strategic."

"So," Tony frowned, "you're saying Londono is actually more dangerous than Reynosa. But not necessarily to Gibbs."

Ducky beamed at him. "Oh my, yes. This man has the potential to be a true monster. He is not playing in the sandbox his father built for him, as is the case with Paloma Reynosa. Londono has methodically taken over the empire and driven all others out. In fact, if Gibbs had not killed the man's adoptive family I suspect he would have taken care of them in his own time. He is ferociously ambitious and displays all of the hallmarks of a control freak. And if I'm not mistaken, Paloma Reynosa had best watch her back. Perhaps she is already aware of the danger he poses, and that is why she wanted to have his involvement in Gibbs' murder in her back pocket . . . hm." The doctor trailed off, pondering the notion.

"So," Ziva put in, steering Ducky back to the point, "in your opinion, Londono will not come after Gibbs."

"Jethro hasn't given him reason to yet. Remember, this is an extremely rational man. The destruction of those drug-making labs was a one time event, and quite a small fly in the ointment for an organization as extensive as the Calera cartel. I do not believe he will seek revenge on that account. But if he identifies you as a true enemy, as someone who is a threat to his financial or political ambitions, I fear he will be dangerous indeed. Paloma Reynosa is a reasonably intelligent woman, and unscrupulous of course, but she is overconfident and impatient, which leads to mistakes. Beside Roberto Londono she is rather an amateur. One well on her way, most likely, to being swallowed up by a much more fearsome predator."

"So all we have to do is stay out of his hair and the feud's over?" Tony asked. "And this guy even takes care of Paloma for us?"

Gibbs and Vance smirked at each other across the table. It was an _aren't the kids cute_ look.

"Sounds good to me. What are we missing?" That was McGee.

"Rule Fourteen," Gibbs explained. Or was about to.

"You can't get something for nothing," McGee said promptly.

Tony turned to look at his junior agent. "Now how would you know that, probie? I don't even know that rule."

"Abby," McGee replied smugly.

There was a two second pause, a dimwit delay, before he realized that he'd said that out loud.

It would have been fine, if he hadn't reacted. But they were all looking at him, Gibbs included, and McGee could never help himself when people were looking at him. The blood rushed up his face and he was glowing like a homing beacon in three seconds flat.

Ziva raised her eyebrows, ruthlessly suppressed a laugh, and looked away. A none too subtle step out of the fray.

Tony was never very good at getting out of the fray.

"Oh-ho! Only one thing lights probie's fire like that!" Dinozzo crowed. "So, Timmy, do tell, what exactly inspired – "

"_Hey_."

Gibbs growled, instead of barked, because they were in the director's office. But it was pretty clear there would be barking later. "_Nothing is free_, McGee. That is Rule Fourteen." Gibbs eyed him darkly. "And it's as true for Abby as it is for Kort."

"Uh, yes boss," McGee said contritely. He stared at the table, the subject of everyone's scrutiny, until Ziva took mercy.

"Kort is operating only on the fringes of official CIA mandate in this. He wants to take Londono down for some reason of his own," she said slowly. "He does not care about the Agency's reasons for allowing the Calera cartel to operate. And now Gibbs owes him. You think he will not let us stay out of the fight."

Gibbs nodded. "He'll call to collect, when he's ready."

"So all this research into Londono is . . . prep work," Tony ventured, gesturing to the papers spread out on the table. "For when they send the bat signal."

"Yeah, Dinozzo. Prep work."

Tony was pretty sure he didn't buy that. Too many of Gibbs' people had come too close to death in that little patch of jungle, and that wasn't the sort of thing the boss just let go. Either Gibbs thought Kort was going to bring him in on the real action or Gibbs was prepping for his own action.

"Well, I vote we wait for Londono to finish wooing Paloma before we take him on," Tony said. "Especially if he eats her at the end of it, like Ducky says he will. I'm all for a little monster-on-monster action."

Ziva narrowed her eyes in that way that said she thought he was disgusting, and would tell him so if only they weren't sitting in the director's office, three feet from the director.

Gibbs tossed the psych profile papers that Ducky gave them onto the table. "You've been spending too much time with Kort."

"That is true," Tony said. "But I'm not sure I follow."

"Using Londono to get Reynosa. Allowing one just a little more power, a little more time, until you get what you want from them. That's CIA thinking, Dinozzo," Vance said.

"Well," Tony said, "If you do get what you want – "

Gibbs stood up and Tony fell abruptly silent. The boss was practically shooting sparks.

"For every Paloma they kill ten of us, Dinozzo. And a hundred civilians!" He turned from the table and stalked out of the room like a launched explosive. "There is no getting what you _want_ from them." He slammed through the door and was gone.

There was unnatural quiet for a moment. Vance looked at them expectantly.

"Um," McGee spoke up. "Abby and I did some digging into the Reynosas too . . ." McGee glanced uncomfortably at the director.

"Spit it out, McGee. I don't think anything you have to say could possibly shock me."

"Pedro Hernandez was under some kind of CIA protection." McGee spoke fast, maybe in hopes that the speed of the confession would lessen the chances of Gibbs ever finding out about it. "He'd been feeding them information about a rival cartel. That's why it was impossible to get him extradited to the US for the murders, even after he was implicated in four deaths – a Marine, an NIS agent, and the wife and daughter of a Marine? There was a lot of pressure to get him. He should have been brought back to trial, but he wasn't. With the material Kort gave us and the extra digging we've been doing we found out that he wasn't really pursued beyond the US border and outside of NIS jurisdiction. Because, well, apparently the CIA wanted him where he was."

Tony ran a hand through his hair, trying to sooth the little tendril of despair creeping up his spine.

But it was endless.

He understood, now, that getting Gibbs out of that camp hadn't solved anything, or even begun anything, really. It was just another spin in the endless circle of the drug war - money and power, revenge and yet more money, all of it floating in an ocean of blood. So rarely the blood of the guilty. It was the civilians who really got shafted. Lives that were forgotten or ignored, or maybe traded away, like nothing, for scraps of information - Gibbs' family for scum like Pedro Hernandez. All those people in the labs for a drug lord's helicopter.

"Where he was?" Ziva said acidly. "Killing Marines and federal agents. And Gibbs' family?" It was clear Ziva put whoever made that decision at the CIA on the same level as Hernandez himself, and she would be more than happy to help them meet the same fate.

Not that he didn't agree. Still, around and around they went, Tony thought. Like a merry-go-round in hell. More enemies, more blood, more dead. Long after someone came along and snuffed him this war would live on.

They sat in silence around the table until Vance stood to send them on their way.

"Get back to work, people. There's plenty to do."

* * *

><p><em>an: T__o reviewers, feedbackers, and readers too - thanks all!_


	31. Dinozzo!

**Chapter 31: "Dinozzo!"**

"Dinozzo!"

Abby stuck her face about three inches from Tony's. "Grab your gear!"

Tony looked up, very slowly, from his incredible backlog of unopened emails.

Abby was channeling Gibbs again. That never led to anything good.

"We've got a dead steak at Hamilton's with your name on it. I've already gassed the hearse!"

"Abby, I've got – "

"Nope." She seized his arm and hauled him up, careful to avoid the stitches still in his wrist. "You've had mysterious adventures and terrible near death experiences and we're going out so that you can get drunk and tell me and McGee all about it. Ziva too!"

Across the aisle Ziva was getting similar treatment from McGee – although the probie was not so stupid as to grab or haul Ziva anywhere. He was simply blocking her view of the computer screen with her purse, looking off into the distance at the same time. As if it was entirely accidental that he was holding her belongings in midair, right in front of her face.

Quite the strategic thinker, McGoo.

And yet, Tony knew resistance would be futile. In the end the geeks always won - this is every jock's first real life lesson.

Maybe not in middle school, but eventually, they did win.

Twenty minutes later Tony was in a pub, sucking the foam off his first beer. "To team Gibbs!" Abby announced proudly, and they clinked glasses.

Then sat there in awkward silence.

Team Gibbs to the core - they hadn't talked about any of it yet. Just hugged, when they got back last week, and reassured themselves that they were all fine. That everything was okay.

But now they were all sitting here, staring not-quite-okay in the face. Gibbs hadn't reappeared all afternoon. No one had seen him since he'd stormed out of Vance's office.

Fortunately Abby didn't believe in awkward silences.

"So," she said, eyes bouncing between Ziva and Tony. "Spill."

"I'm never going camping again," Tony said promptly.

"You've been camping before?" Tim frowned. "Real camping?"

"Or hiking," Tony continued. "I'm not going to the zoo, or to the nature preserve. I'll not be involved with anything remotely as green as Ralph Nadar."

Abby was laughing, but that last got her protesting too. She considered herself a fan of the Green Party, after all. "Tony!"

Trying to convince him to love nature, mere days after the jungle had swallowed him up and almost forgotten to spit him back out. Not likely - not when he was still missing half the skin on his feet. As far as Tony was concerned a Ferrari and a four-lane highway paved right over the jungle would've greatly improved his entire Colombian experience, probably in direct proportion to his big, black, beautiful carbon footprint.

"Nope," he declared. Decisive. "I'm an urban cowboy, Abby."

They were all laughing now.

It was Tim's turn. The boy scout. Another nature lover, of course.

"Tony, that's - "

"No Tim. You see -" He pulled on a John Travolta drawl like a cowboy tugged down the brim of his hat. "Contrary to what you or your daddy think. All cowboys ain't dumb. Some of 'em got smarts real good, like me." He smirked, smug, as if he'd just proven the Theory of Relativity. "You see? I may not have multiple degrees but I am smart enough to know that I belong in civilization, where the wildest thing I'll see all night is that fine young lady's cocktail dress." He smiled appreciatively and tipped his drink toward the bar, and they all turned to stare at a woman wearing . . . hardly anything at all.

"Yeeaow," Tony underscored his point.

"Ziva!" Abby turned to her for back up.

"While I am all for clothing, as well as the occasional tree and responsible stewardship of our natural resources, at the moment I am also partial to environments that feature plumbing," Ziva said. "And hygienic beverages. This bar, for example, is quite nice." And with that she knocked back the last of her beer.

"Exactly," Tony said, and did the same.

"Next round's on me!" Abby leapt up and skipped straight up to the bar. The advantage of drinking on a Monday night - the place was dead.

Tony watched her go. Abby was buying the drinks?

"That's not a good sign," he said. "That never leads to anything good."

"She's on a mission." Tim smiled indulgently, but not at Tony. He was looking after Abby, and his eyes were as soft and gooey as a commercial for chocolate chip cookies.

"Whoa boy," Tony muttered. Ziva had raised an eyebrow and was following the love trail too.

"She thinks you need to relax. Celebrate, you know, since you got Gibbs back," McGee declared, turning his attention back to them, "and everything's good again." Tim raised his eyebrows. _Why isn't everything good again_, that meant.

"I do need to relax, McGeek. Just last week I was nearly eaten by a snake as big around as your head."

"No way!" Abby had returned, expertly balancing four beers, and plunked them down on the table. "What kind?"

"You did not see a snake as big as my head," Tim scoffed.

"I know it's hard to believe, Tim, but there are some things in this world that actually are as big as -"

"It was not as big around as either of your inexplicably large heads. But Abby's head . . . " Ziva eyed said head thoughtfully. "I think it may have been about the same diameter. We do not know what kind it was," she added. "Only that it was harmless - "

"Supposedly," Tony said.

" - and not at all afraid of people."

"Cool!" Abby, of course.

"Hey, actually Abs, I meant to tell you I saw a spider out there dressed just like you."

"No way! I love spiders!"

"I know how you do, and you would have loved this one especially." Tony set aside the fact that when he left it that spider hadn't been in any condition to be loved by anyone. "It was even bigger than McGoo's head, if you can believe it, and it had spiky black hairs all over, and red fangs. And I am not kidding you, it was honest to go -"

Tony broke off as Abby seized him by the arm and hauled him up.

"Tony!" She looked him over, wide-eyed. "Oh my god. I had no idea - nobody told me! Where did it get you? Are you - "

She broke off and looked down. At his crotch. And stared.

Just when Tony was going to slink back into the safety of the booth, Abby looked up into his eyes.

And back at his crotch.

She leaned in close then, as if there was a chance in hell that Ziva and Tim would miss what she had to say at this point. Both of them leaned in as well. They were practically a football huddle.

"Are you okay?" she whispered dramatically.

"Yeah?" he whispered back.

Abby let go of his arm to seize hold of his hand, and then she spoke so slowly and clearly Tony had an actual flash of deja vu. It was Mrs. Breen, in first grade, he was pretty sure. The careful instructions she gave about how to blow your nose.

"Are you saying. It did not. Bite you?"

"Nope. Didn't bite me. It was, uh, looking at me kind of like it was thinking about it," Tony said. "And then the kid . . ."

Crap.

" . . took care of it," he winced. She would want to know how, and then he would have to tell her. And Abby would probably not be happy, because in Tony's experience Abby did not approve of crushing wildlife, no matter what color its fangs were.

"Wow."

"Uh-huh." Tony eased back down into the booth, finally, extricating himself slowly. He needn't have bothered - Abby was so bedazzled by his spider story she seemed to have temporarily left the planet.

Tim got up to get the next round of beers, and Abby sank down into his spot in the booth.

She frowned suddenly, alarmed. "Wait. Gray didn't get bitten, did he?"

"Definitely not." Tony had no doubt the kid would pan fry an army of those spiders and eat them for breakfast just for thinking about it. Probably served in a soup made entirely of hot sauce. "Nobody got bitten."

"Wow!" Abby was excited again.

"Yeah . . . "

Tony frowned his Confused Tony face comically at Ziva, who laughed.

"So," he sipped appreciatively at his fresh beer, "I take it the Abby spider packs a mean punch."

"Well," Abby frowned back. "I wouldn't say they're _mean_, per se. They're just doing what Abby spiders are meant to do. But of course they are the world's most poisonous."

Tony choked on his beer.

"Genus _Phononeutria fera_," Abby nodded sagely. "The wandering spider. Also known as banana spiders because they've been found in supermarkets all over the world, hiding in big bunches of bananas. That's why you should always scope out strange bananas before you pick them up," she added seriously. "You never know what could be hiding under there."

That sounded . . . vaguely . . .

"Are you serious, Abby?" That was Ziva, accompanied by her own Seriously Incredulous Ziva face.

"Absolutely."

"Well, okay then," Tony muttered, remembering all those beady black eyes, and the sticky blue blood. "I'm glad the kid smushed it then, even with all the blue goo everywhere."

"Well, all spiders have blue blood, Tony," Abby said dismissively. "You just rarely see enough of it to realize it's blue." She frowned. "Even if you were going around regularly smushing spiders. Which actually _would_ be mean. But in this specific case it may have been your best option, since the wanderers are really fast, and the bigger it was the more venom it would probably inject, and _Phononeutria fera_'s venom is a neurotoxin that causes loss of muscle control and difficulty breathing," Abby paused briefly to drink, "which without immediate medical attention leads to paralysis and eventual death by asphyxiation. The toxin is also intensely painful and," she grinned a little devilishly at Tony, "it can lead to inflammation. Including priapism."

Tony shook his head, finished his beer. That's what he meant about geeks. They knew real things that were far more horrible than any nightmare Stephen King could dream up, plus they had that totally sadistic sense of humor. Psychological trauma left over from middle school, probably.

He'd really rather not know this stuff. But his Abby Spider hall of horrors was going to stay with him till the day he died, he could already tell.

"Priapism?" Ziva frowned.

"When it won't go down!" Abby explained cheerfully, and then provided a helpful graphic demonstration.

"Oh!" Ziva looked askance at Tony.

"I did not get bitten by the sadistic Abby spider!"

"Yep," Abby carried on merrily. She was a talkative drunk, and Tim was a quiet one, apparently happy just to sit there all night and watch her talk. "In fact its venom is being studied for use in erectile dysfunction treatments. Isn't that cool? But you'd definitely be dead by now if it bit you. Hey, you should send Gray a thank-you card. And I'll sign it too. I'm thankful!" She paused again to sip at the dwindling pint in front of her. Tony eyed it, trying to remember if it was number three or four.

"Hey, maybe I'll make one instead," she said excitedly. "I can draw _P. fera._"

"Abby," Tony protested. Totally at sea now, and not just because of the beer. "We don't know where the kid lives. We'll probably never see him again - "

"Pish!" She leaned in close and lowered her voice, like what she was about to say was a serious state secret. "He saved your _lives_. Like, _multiple times_." Abby's hands moved around, in a way that might have implied multiplication. "Gibbs is going to do more than send him a thank-you card. But a handmade card to accompany the Gibbs Love is always nice. Do you want me to make you one too?"

"Well, but . . .Gibbs isn't . . . he doesn't have much of a 'Love' vibe going on lately, Abby." Tony said cautiously. "And the kid is - he's -"

Well. Something. Something that carried a gun and killed things in the night. Not a typical winner for Gibbs Love. Though Ziva had done fairly well for awhile there, hadn't she, once she'd stopped killing people quite so regularly.

Until of course she'd landed herself a spot in shit's creek that as far as he could tell was just slightly upstream from the spot he was currently standing in . . .

"That's because he's mad at you." Abby nodded easily. At least Tony thought it was a nod. It might have been a sway. "And he's really mad at him. Gibbs," she added nonsensically. "So he's being unGibbsy. Or maybe it's extraGibbsy." She frowned, momentarily puzzled. But then took up the nodding again. "Because you almost died. See? So what you gotta do is you gotta go talk to him. Remind him you didn't. But first you can write up your drafts." She smiled triumphantly and produced a fancy black calligraphy pen from one of the many zippered pockets on her skirt, pulling it out with a flourish. "For your thank-you notes."

Tony and Ziva blinked at her helplessly.

Resistance was futile.

**x**

Gibbs was staring at Londono's file, not really reading it anymore, when he heard the front door open.

He killed the light and waited under the basement steps with his pistol, watching the intruder's feet descend, fast and loose. The shadowy silhouette was almost a blur as it came into view and Gibbs took aim.

He just about shot Dinozzo in the chest.

Tony sensed him in the unusual spot and turned. Froze seeing the pistol aimed at his heart.

Then the mask came up and Dinozzo was himself again, relaxed and cheerful and full of shit. "Oh. Hey Boss."

They stood there, just like that, a little longer than was comfortable.

Gibbs lowered the gun slowly and walked stiffly back to his workbench. "You shouldn't be here."

"Right. The ban." Tony chuckled. "You know I think the bad guys can figure out that the team is close, Boss. Whether or not any of us come over here. Anyway, I'm willing to risk it."

It hovered in the air. _Willing to risk it_.

Of course he was. What hadn't he risked in the last few days? His career, his life, the family he'd made of the team. And his . . . well, Ziva.

Tony walked forward and placed a bottle of bourbon on one of the upper shelves, right next to the other four. "Huh. Guess I'm late to the party."

Gibbs tossed the folder in front of him aside and dragged forward a pair of clamps. They had spring hinges and were about due for cleaning and fresh oil.

Tony sat a little to the side and watched as the boss dismantled the delicate mechanisms. It was like a visual lullaby, soothing despite the tension between them. He thought he could sit there and watch Gibbs' capable hands forever.

About ten minutes of silent staring on Tony's part and Gibbs spoke up, though his focus never left those springs. "There a reason you're here, Dinozzo?"

Tony knew what he wanted to say, sort of. It had been . . . _on_ his mind wasn't really accurate. It took over, as soon as he knew, and refused to let go. In his downtime, at night, it was there. Staring at him.

The fact that he knew what he wanted to say didn't really make it any easier to say it. And he wasn't sure what he was expecting to hear back -

Tony eyed the row of shiny new bourbon bottles. Hardly even any dust on them. "The fire. Boss."

He stood up suddenly and reached over Gibbs' head for a mostly empty jar, dumped the few bolts inside onto the spot where the jar had been and half-heartedly wiped up the grit inside with his fingers. He pulled down the only bottle with a dent in it and poured an inch.

Not because he wanted a drink, really. But Gibbs hadn't so much as looked at him since he'd lowered the gun, and if nothing else, Tony could at least take comfort in this ritual.

Gibbs followed the jerky movements of Dinozzo's hands, smelled the beer already coming off the other man, and went back to the springs. This was the difficult bit. Slip up when you were removing them and the whole thing would fly apart.

Tony didn't really have anything else to say. What else was there? He sipped the bourbon until it was gone. Turned the empty jar around in his hands while Gibbs fiddled with his clamps.

When all of the tiny internal pieces were laid out in a row, and clean, Gibbs reached up for the oil and set it on the bench beside him. Then he braced his forearms on the table and picked up one of the little metal plates.

"I know you're pissed." Tony paused in case there was a denial. But of course there wasn't. "That we came for you. It was my decision Boss, to take Ziva in there, and the kid." Tony stared at his empty glass. "I just didn't see any other way."

A long time seemed to pass while the man beside him smoothed clear oil into the deep notches stamped on those little plates, his concentration on the task before him total.

"Gray probably would have ended up there anyway," Gibbs finally said, talking to the seventh notch. "He's already deep in with Kort." He'd come to that conclusion after a very long weekend of bad nights. Replaying that scream from the clearing. The guards falling, the kid's face under a spray of blood. Gibbs shrugged, said frankly, "You used him. Now he'll use you. All in the game."

Tony stared at Gibbs' profile, his fingers tightening around the thick glass in his hands. "But not Ziva."

Gibbs set a flat piece of metal down on a cloth and picked up another that looked just like it.

Tony turned back to the glass in his hands. "I just didn't see any other way," he said again, and even to him it sounded lame.

Gibbs set the plate back down on the table. He sat as still as Tony, just looking at his empty hands. But the tension in the air seemed to have soaked into him, like electricity flooding a live wire.

"Then you should've left it alone."

Tony scoffed. "Yeah."

"You're the leader of the team when I'm not around." Gibbs' voice was hard, and about as cold as Tony'd ever heard it. "They look to you."

"Not for long if I'd let you rot down there."

Gibbs straightened his shoulders, glaring down at the delicate springs, all laid out in pieces before him. "You think this is a damn popularity contest?" he said quietly. "You got lucky. You think she would have come back from it, Dinozzo? If that _kid_ hadn't come for us?"

Of one thing Gibbs was sure. Tony never would have. He'd have seen it as his responsibility, and it would have destroyed him.

Gibbs finally turned to face him then, letting the anger that had lurked beneath the surface show. His words vibrated with it, precise and clipped, every one like a punch. "Even if we'd survived that patrol on our own _you'd_ be off the team, that's for damned sure. Probably after I beat the hell out of you. You got _lucky_. Don't ever put my team in danger like that again."

"You – "

"No!" Gibbs roared. "I don't!"

Tony swallowed. And he didn't. Gibbs really didn't. He went off on his own when the shit hit the fan, didn't he? That was the problem.

"So you think she'd have been just fine if you disappeared down there forever? And we'd never even _tried_?" He lost it, lurched to his feet and leaned toward Gibbs. He was shouting now, body coiled, sudden and utter rage pouring out his throat. "Don't you get what that would do to us? To _Abby_?" All the fear he'd swallowed, back when they didn't know where Gibbs was. And then in that jungle - they'd come so close to never coming back. "How can you be so fucking dense!"

He stopped, straightened, ran a shaky hand through his hair before his voice could crack. Laughed bitterly under Gibbs' bright, watchful glare. "Maybe. Maybe someday we'd hear. If they took the dirtbag down and the CIA swept the camp. Kort's a nice guy, he might throw us a bone. Hey, some of your bones! Because Abby would want to _know_. How long do you think it would've taken, huh Boss? What would it be in the end? Organ failure's the easy answer, isn't it? Or blood loss? But who can keep track of them all – there are so many ways to be tortured to death. Ziva's better at that kind of thing. I'm sure she could picture it real easy. You know what? She already was!" Tony flung a hand into the air, literally exploding, words coming so fast he was gulping air. "You think you didn't bring it back, you asshole? That she wasn't reliving it? Wondering if she would be able to get you back the way we got her back? Wondering with every goddamn minute if it would be too late? If you were going through what she went through? Or _worse_?" The hand slashed through the air again, narrowly missing a shelf. "Of course none of us are the scientists Abby and Ducky are. Abby would figure it out, right? Abby loves a mystery. She'd want to know exactly what it was. You know maybe if she knew for sure, maybe if she had a funeral, a goddamn empty casket, _maybe _she'd sleep - "

He couldn't. His mind was all dark, his vision spotty. But he couldn't stop either. It was like a freight train sitting in his chest, heavy and unstoppable. "And _you_ - "

His voice wouldn't go as loud as he needed it to. He was shouting as hard as he could, leaning into it, heaving for breath. But it wasn't enough.

Somehow, impossibly, that made him even angrier.

Tony cocked his arm back fast, as far as it would go, and hurled it forward with all the weight of his body. His aim was true – it always was – and the jar whipped by Gibbs' ear to hit the steel shovel hung on the wall beyond his head. It shattered to a thousand pieces, blown all to hell, a carpet of glass on the floor. He turned with the momentum of the throw, his fist already raised, swiping out. The bottles of bourbon were great heavy dominoes, but they would shatter under the force of that swing -

Gibbs stood and reached out, catching his arm in a savage grip. Tony's fist hovered an inch from the heavy glass.

"Alright," Gibbs said. "Alright."

He grabbed the agent's other arm and walked him back, manhandling him until he was next to the ledge he'd been sitting on before, finally pushing the rigid body down into the seat.

Tony breathed deeply, in through the nose out through the mouth, still ragged under the incredible pressure in his chest. He twisted his shoulders sharply, dislodging Gibbs' hands, and the other man stepped back.

Tony might have zoned out for a minute or two.

When he came to Gibbs was on the other side of the basement with a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the last of the glass. Gibbs emptied the glittering pan into a paper bag and set it by the bin that he usually swept all the sawdust into. He came over to stand in front of the workbench for a minute then, just pressing his hands into the wood. Eventually he took two jars down and emptied them carelessly before filling them both with bourbon. He picked one up and held it in front of Dinozzo.

"You weren't there," Tony said dully.

Gibbs didn't say anything. But he did meet Tony's eyes, and this time, he held them.

That was _I know_.

I know.

Tony felt something loosen in his chest then, something so hard and tight and dark he hadn't even realized it was there.

Gibbs held out the glass until Tony finally reached up and took it from him. Then he returned to the stool by his worktable and sat there stiffly, turning the jar in his hands in a circle. They were silent, and the air felt heavy under the weight of the past.

"The casualties from the fire weren't your fault, Dinozzo," Gibbs said at last.

Of course, Tony thought tiredly. It was always the same, when Gibbs came up against some piece of reality he didn't much like. If he couldn't destroy it or arrest it, he ignored it. Just turned around and walked away. Never happened.

It was the same as Gibbs' way of accepting an argument. He moved on. Walked away. Never happened.

It wasn't as if Tony could change the man. Wasn't as if he really wanted to. It just made him tired, sometimes.

"Oh yeah?" His voice was a little scratchy, a little hard. "Whose fault were they?"

Silence.

"Even the evil fuckers they worked for didn't – didn't burn those people alive." Tony sipped carelessly from the bourbon he held, wincing at the burn over his raw throat.

"They were civilians in a war zone, Tony." Gibbs said. "Civilians die in wars."

Tony shook his head. The words didn't even register.

"A lot more of them than soldiers on either side, in modern war." Gibbs went on relentlessly, tonelessly. "That's a reality you've got to accept before you go."

Gibbs paused. But Dinozzo was silent.

"That's why it's a last resort. You didn't feel like you had a choice – I get that," Gibbs admitted. "That fight _was_ your last resort."

Gibbs knew his rational arguments weren't penetrating. If he was honest with himself he wasn't really sure there was anything rational to be found here. 'Civilians die in wars.' Was that supposed to make him feel better? If anyone had said that to him after his little girl was killed in this same so-called war . . . well, there'd have been one more casualty to add to the list.

Some things reason just couldn't fix. It was done now, it was what it was, and Dinozzo had to find a way to deal with it.

And Gibbs would at least try to point him in the right direction. Get him moving. Because the enemy they were circling here was dangerous. Good men shot themselves with their own guns over things like this. Just to end this fight. Or drank themselves into an early grave, just to hide from it.

He lifted his eyes to let them run over the man beside him, his second, slumped against a basement stud. "You work your ass off saving lives, Dinozzo," he said. "But you can't win every time."

Tony didn't have the will to shake his head anymore, to protest at how useless that was. He'd literally been shaking with energy a few minutes ago, blowing himself apart with it. But now he was so drained, like there was nothing left inside. Just a vacuum maybe, a void that he was caving in on.

This was why Dinozzo's - the smart ones, anyway - didn't drink.

"We can never win. It's endless," he said, still hoarse. And all we do is lose more and more.

The ghoulish merry-go-round and the river of blood. Gibbs would know what he meant. Gibbs hadn't won anything with Hernandez, hadn't solved anything. He'd already lost everything that mattered at that point, and even now, even though Hernandez was long dead and it should at least be_ over_, fucking dust in the grave, the fight raged on. Took more. Those people who died in the fire, it took them, and no one could ever win them back.

No one could believe those people would be the last, either.

Gibbs licked his lips, drank the last of his bourbon. He'd been where Tony was now, and it wasn't a good place. In fact, it was so bad he'd made a rule for it. "It seems that way if you let it become your life, Dinozzo. That's why when the job's done you walk away. You don't and it'll eat you alive."

"Yeah." Right. "So you're gonna walk away from Gray?"

Gibbs tilted the glass in his hand, suppressed the urge to fill it again._ Yeah_, he wanted to say, _I am_. That would simplify things. Or _No. He's not the job. _A kid's not a job.

But neither of those was really true.

"Job's not done," he said.

The rules weren't there to make you feel good.

Tony kept flashing back to Gray, looking at those photos, all those faces. Searching every one. Lingering over four. He'd been looking for friends, hadn't he. Maybe his family.

Abby damn near hugged the life out of Tony last week, when the team was finally reunited. And she'd sent up a prayer just for him, every single day that they were out in Colombia. She told him so. She'd been there, Tim too, waiting for him and Ziva when they were released from Langely. Something solid to welcome them home.

Tony didn't even know if the kid had anyone left to do that. Would Gray have cried if he recognized the last of his family in those pictures? Said anything at all?

Tony had no idea.

He didn't put those people in the labs. Hadn't started the war. But Gibbs was right, before – he was responsible for bringing Ziva into it, and the kid. And he was responsible for the fire. For all that loss. Everything that went down on that mission was down to him.

It was strange now, to remember that moment, back in the jungle, when he'd been sickened as Gibbs killed two men. Two. And mercenaries, at that, not exactly innocent. Killed them with his own hands, to protect the clueless agents watching him, judging him, even though Gibbs had made it instant. Painless.

Tony set the still full jar aside. He already felt sick. When he spoke his voice wasn't hard anymore. It was . . . nothing. "He knew some of those people. Gray I mean. If we run into him again, ever work with him on the Calera intel, you should take Ziva with you. Or McGee. Keep me out of it."

Gibbs looked at Tony, puzzled. "He doesn't blame you."

"Oh," Tony laughed emptily. "Oh yeah, he does. You didn't see him, watching it . . ." That was the first time that Tony reached out, tried to help him, and the kid knocked him away. Looked like he wanted to kill him –

"Yeah, Dinozzo," Gibbs said, still staring at Tony. "I did see him. He was upset. But he doesn't blame you. _You_ blame you."

"I was the lead." Tony was calm again now, too exhausted to feel anything. "Like you said. He won't want me arou – "

"Don't give me that crap. The kid's decided to trust you. Don't fuck it up by backing out now."

To _trust _him?

The boss was rarely this off base. But it did happen.

"Dinozzo - he said he didn't blame you. Any of us. I don't think he's our biggest fan, but he doesn't hold us responsible for the people who died in that fire either."

Tony looked up slowly. "He told you that?"

Gibbs huffed, a humorless little laugh. "He told all of us. At the debrief."

Tony shook his head. "What – ?"

"He recognized some of them." Gibbs studied the yellow basement light, how it slanted through the alcohol cradled in his hand, glowed inside the amber liquid. "I thought he would blame us. I would've, if those were my people in there."

He didn't look at Tony.

_The kid's decided to trust you. Don't fuck it up by backing out now . . ._

Gibbs could say the same about himself, a thousand times over. Always easiest to give the advice you're most in need of. "In the debrief they asked him if he had anything to say about the fire. They asked him, Dinozzo, point blank. You remember that?"

Tony frowned. "He said – something about the guards . . ."

"Yeah," Gibbs said, unusually grim. "He said he didn't think there were any guards among the dead."

"So?"

"So there would've been guards in the labs, Dinozzo. But they got out. All of them."

Tony just stared at him.

"They left the workers to die in there, Tony. The guards didn't bother to release them."

Dinozzo just kept staring at him. Gibbs stared right back.

"Or maybe they locked them in. The chaos of a fire would be the perfect opportunity to lift a few grand worth of coke, right? A fortune. The guards could say it was lost in the fire . . . there'd be no one left alive to say anything different." Gibbs looked away from the horror in Tony's eyes, ran a hand across his mouth. "Your grenades started that fire. But whatever it was that trapped those people in there, the fact that so many didn't make it out - that was deliberate. And he blames the guards. The cartel. Londono maybe. Not you."

_Not me._

Tony searched his face, looking for the truth in it, or the lie.

Gibbs had lied to him before, about some things. Hadn't said a word about a whole lot of other things. If the boss thought it was for the best -

The man returned his gaze steadily.

Finally Dinozzo slumped a little, lifted a hand and ran it through his hair.

He was so tired.

Gibbs gestured toward the back corner of the basement. "It's late. You can take the cot."

"No," Tony stood up. "I'm going home."

"You're drunk."

"Yeah. That's why I took a cab."

Tony was already at the first step when he paused and looked back. There was something else nagging at him.

The boss's still profile was lit by the stark work light at his bench, the room all around him cast in shadows.

He looked incredibly alone. But that was how the man seemed to prefer it.

Even so he always took care of the team. And Gibbs had a different relationship with her, about the job . . . maybe she would talk to him. "Gibbs."

Gibbs turned to face him.

Tony's hand tightened on the railing in front of him. "You know Kort's got something on Ziva?"

Gibbs didn't look surprised, exactly. But his gaze was suddenly intense.

"It came up at that first meeting. Something to do with whatever she was into with Mossad. Something . . . " _illegal wrong dark no _" . . . she'd rather keep quiet."

He nodded at the warning and Tony was out of there.

Gibbs looked at the dismantled hinges in front of him as the stairs creaked, and then the floorboards overhead. He listened as the front door finally closed above him, and everything was silent.

* * *

><p><em>an: "Contrary to what you or your daddy think. All cowboys ain't dumb. Some of 'em got smarts real good, like me," is from _Urban Cowboy_._

_Rule Eleven - when the job's done, walk away - is a real Gibbs Rule._

_The previous chapter's Rule Fourteen? Not so much. Canon Rule Fourteen remains a mystery._


	32. Good Talk

**Chapter 32: Good Talk**

There was a dead body the next day, a petty officer. Turned out to be an accidental death.

The team's collective hangover was thankful.

The rest of the week was a string of muggings and assaults. That was a Marine with a testosterone problem going off the deep end. Then a suicide. Then an overdose. Weapons that had never been reported missing showing up on the black market. Then a murder, drug related.

The drug crime was a little more personal for everyone now, except maybe for Gibbs, who had probably taken them personally all along.

Then another dead body, hit-and-run manslaughter. Followed by a murder . . .

Two months passed in total normalcy. Gibbs was back to being Gibbs. The team was back the way it was before. It was a little tentative, at first, but with each passing day grew more solid.

Somehow, though none of the rest of the team was quite sure how, Tony had fixed it.

And then Gibbs answered his cell and got Kort.

It was 0630. He'd just walked into the office, where they were deep into a missing person case going nowhere, and he only had a half cup of coffee in him. Not nearly enough.

"Gibbs, it's Kort. Are you in DC?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said slowly. Cautiously.

His agents looked up from their desks, watched as he sat down in his chair. Cautious was weird for Gibbs.

"Good. Gray got picked up last night, I need you to bail him out. He's at the Seventh District Station."

Kort's voice was delayed, like he was talking from the other side of the world. "Gibbs?"

"Yeah?" Even more cautious this time.

"He's in the system as your son, under the name Alan Gibbs. Bail is five hundred or a thousand, something like that. You'll get reimbursed."

Silence.

"Gibbs, you there?"

"Kort." His agents sat up so fast their chairs rattled. "Where are _you_?"

"South Africa. Just get him out as fast as you can, alright?" Kort said irritably. "He's already going to be late and it's only the second week of school."

And then he hung up.

Gibbs glared at the phone. The man hadn't even said that last bit with the slightest hint of sarcasm. "I'm going to jail," he stood up. "To bail out Gray."

Mouths opened. "I don't know anything else." More mouths, flapping. "No, you can't come with me. Dinozzo, work the case."

He stopped on the way to the Seventh for more coffee and was still standing at the sergeant's desk by 0655.

"Here to post bail for Alan Gibbs." He slid his ID and credit card through the slot beneath the bulletproof glass and got forms to fill out in return. And a receipt. That, he would keep.

The burly desk sarge gave his NCIS ID another once over before sliding it back to him, a little friendlier than he'd been before. Like an ice cube taken out of deep freeze and tossed into a snow bank, the change was marginal. "We'll have him out in about an hour," he said gruffly. "That's as fast as it gets around here."

The man peered at him challengingly, as if he expected Gibbs to throw a fit. When Gibbs merely raised a calm eyebrow he won another nugget.

"Your kid went over a car last night, got a little banged up. Said he was fine," the sergeant bent back to his paperwork. "But you might want to have him checked out."

His kid. Went "over" a car.

Gibbs nodded and sat down in one of the plastic chairs scattered around the room. He was pretty sure they were the same model that had been in his high school principal's office. In his four years at Stillwater High Gibbs became very familiar with those chairs.

He was a middle-aged man before he'd spent a night in lockup, though. When Lara Macy pegged Gibbs for a murder, threw him in jail, and interrogated him like the smart, bulldog investigator she was.

He'd been angry that she let him walk away. Enraged that nothing was turning out the way it was supposed to. Not his homecoming from Desert Storm, which he should have found in Shannon's arms. Not the cops, who were supposed to catch the bastard who took his family from him. Not even killing Hernandez. Because Allison Hart was right, of course. That should have been the bullet that ended him. It did end his career in the Marines, about the only positive thing he had left in his life at that point. But it didn't do what it was supposed to do - what he hadn't had the courage, or maybe the insanity, to do himself. It hadn't ended him.

Because Lara Macy let him walk away.

Sitting there, on the other side of lockup and twenty years on, he was startled to realize that his anger at her had faded to nothing. He'd always known it was irrational, but his rage had festered for decades all the same. Her death at Dean's hands hadn't helped at all - it only made him more angry. If she'd thrown away the key the way she should have twenty years ago she would still be alive today.

But it had been her choice, hadn't it? She'd done what she felt she had to do. Like Gibbs, with Hernandez, and Dinozzo, chasing Ziva to Somalia. Like the whole team, when they'd come for him. They'd sold their souls to Kort, basically, and gambled the life of a boy. Right or wrong had nothing to do with it.

He waited an hour and fifteen minutes, just staring at the cinderblock walls. They were painted a dull cream and took on an unpleasant blue tint under the buzzing florescent light. Gibbs ignored the morning flow of people into and out of the station, passing the time instead by contemplating the well-intentioned path to hell that had landed him of all people as Kort's errand boy.

Finally Gray appeared, ushered by a uniformed guard through a steel door. Gibbs watched as the desk sarge shoved a tray with a cell phone and a cheap digital watch through the window and the kid walked over and slipped them into his pockets.

If he was injured there was no obvious sign of it. He was draped in a dirty white shirt and dark, loose jeans, dull gray sneakers on his feet. Hard to tell if they were old or supposed to be that color.

Were those clothes cool? Or could he not afford better?

His hair was shorter than it was before, a little neater. Gibbs idly wondered if the kid had grown at all, gotten any taller. He'd forgotten if that was the sort of thing you could see after two months, and he couldn't judge from this angle anyway.

Gibbs stood when he approached. "Alan?"

"Pops."

Gibbs jerked his head toward the door and they walked out of the station together, blinking in the bright morning sun. He headed toward the parking lot and Gray walked silently beside him.

They were halfway to the car before Gibbs spoke. "So. Said they had you on evading arrest. Assault. And my favorite, possession of cocaine."

No response. He was talking to the wind.

Maybe a more direct approach. "This the first time you've been arrested?"

"Depends on who you ask."

It took a second for that to register. "CIA wipes the record, huh? Every time?"

Gray grinned a little, but not in any sort of happy way, and not at Gibbs.

They'd reached his car and Gibbs stopped by the bumper. "You guilty on the possession?"

But Gray kept walking. Like he'd never intended to stop. "The daddy part's a name only thing, Agent Gibbs," he said, passing him by. "You don't have to act it out."

Was the kid trying to make him angry?

"Hey!"

Gray stopped and slowly turned back.

"I don't care who you are or what you did for me," Gibbs said calmly. But with plenty of conviction. "I'm not going to endlessly bail out an addict. Or a dealer."

Gray looked him up and down, like he was trying to identify the species. "Don't use. Don't sell it."

Gibbs waited for the rest, and Gray shrugged. "Cops showed and a bunch of guys threw away what they were holding. Charged everyone there with possession."

Gibbs studied his face carefully, looking for the lie. He had a feeling he wouldn't necessarily see it on this kid whether it was there or not. "And the assault?"

"There was a fight. Cops charged everybody with fighting."

"Evading?"

"Yeah," Gray said blandly, looking out across the lot. "Tried to."

The kid looked tired, Gibbs realized. Really tired. The skin stretched tight over his face, sharp over the bones, and Gibbs wondered if he'd lost weight since the jungle. The way he wore his clothes it was kind of hard to tell.

Maybe it was stupid to ask, but Gibbs had gotten out of the habit of assuming things. "Why'd you run?"

Gray looked Gibbs over carefully again, this time with something closer to concern. Maybe wondering if his designated bailor had the necessary IQ to carry out the job.

"Let me guess," Gibbs said. "Street cred."

The kid frowned. "Don't ever want to go in." A pause as he watched an unmarked cop car roll by. And then a few extra words, sarcastic and soft. "It's not a fun-filled trip to Disney World, you know."

Gibbs nodded. He did know. His most recent stay in Mexico, most of it spent locked in federal holding, had not been fun by any means. But he didn't say anything, didn't want to break the spell of extra words. They stood there in the sun, the quiet only broken by the shush of traffic outside the lot. And then, out of the blue, he got more.

"Don't like it. The cells."

The kid's voice was indifferent. But the words - a warning. A plea.

Gibbs' breathing shifted automatically, the way it would approaching a wild animal, or a terrified child. But already Gray wasn't looking at him. Was actually physically leaning back a bit, as if instantly regretting that great bombshell. That he didn't like getting arrested. That he needed Gibbs to come and get him out.

Given Gray's history of volunteering information it was probably the understatement of the century anyway. The kid must hate holding cells with the heat of a thousand suns. Gibbs turned his mind to keeping the conversation going. Gray was still standing there. Answering questions. And that flash of vulnerability - a miracle.

Because he was tired? Hurt? Probably in part because of the threat Gibbs made about not coming around to bail him out under certain conditions - like cyclic drug busts.

It was a bit much to lay down the law after what he owed Gray, he was well aware of that. Gibbs gave a mental shrug. So he was a bastard. Kid knew that already. "You alright?"

Gray's face drifted from indifference to puzzlement. "Yeah?"

Gibbs nodded toward the station house. "Cop in there said you went over a car."

"Oh. Yeah. Don't usually catch me," he yawned. Was he eyeing Gibbs' coffee? "The car definitely slowed me down."

Don't _usually_ catch me? Gibbs tried to feel his way. "We have a doctor on site at NCIS. He could see you without any paperwork."

Gray's face relaxed into something that was just a little too smooth. "No need. I'm fine."

Gibbs seriously doubted that. He eyed Gray's torso, wondering what was hiding under that shirt. Were those dark streaks from the car?

The kid was turning away again.

"I can give you a ride," Gibbs offered casually. "Where're you headed?"

Gray raised a hand without even breaking stride, voice already fading. "It's cool."

About to disappear again.

"Hey, wait up a second."

Gray turned back, more impatient now, and Gibbs walked a few paces from the car, closing some of the distance between them. "The Seventh District isn't anywhere near Clifton Park."

Gray looked at him, and then pointedly at his wristwatch.

"You don't live around here," Gibbs said carefully, watching the kid's face. Looking for the tell.

"Is that a question?" Gray's lips ghosted into that faint cold smile. Onto the game.

"I'm betting you live closer to Clifton," Gibbs acknowledged. "You had less than an hour to get there when you first met up with my agents. And you arrived and left on your own." Gibbs sipped his coffee.

"That's good investigating, Agent Gibbs. You could do this professionally."

"So let me give you a ride. That park's on the other end of the city. And Kort already scolded me about you being late for school."

Gray looked at him, really, seriously, for the first time that day. "No."

He continued on his way.

God, it shouldn't be this hard.

"I could drop you somewhere neutral," Gibbs called to his back.

"No."

"Hey, Gray."

The kid turned with an expression that was closing in on pissed-off.

"Is Mateo alright?"

And the look went from pissed to . . . something else.

"Yeah." Gray hesitated. "He's good."

You can't force trust. Gibbs finally let him walk away.

**x**

They'd discreetly tried looking for Gray when they first got back, going through passport records and entry and exit dates, and found nothing. They even looked for Mateo, but the record of his entry into the county must have been wiped. No Mateos matching the kid's description had entered DC or any other city in the US that day, or that week. There was just no information to be found.

Gibbs stood in the Seventh District parking lot and tried calling Kort, dialing the number that had come into his cell that morning. It was already disconnected.

When he got back to headquarters his agents were standing in front of the flat screen, the missing petty officer's face up on it and pretty much nothing else, since they hadn't caught a break yet. She'd almost certainly gone UA, but that was a hard thing to prove before they found her and got her to admit it.

They fell silent when Gibbs came in, just watched him walk in and sit down. Too curious to even pretend to work. Too smart to actually ask.

"Dinozzo, report."

"Still no activity on the cell phone or accounts. We found and called the high school friends to see if they've had any contact. No answer at home, none at work yet either. They're all in the Midwest so they're probably still in their cars, commuting in. We're calling the offices again when they actually open for the day. Where's the kid?"

Gibbs sighed. Better to tell them upfront, so that they could get back to work with any degree of focus.

Anyway, he reminded himself, they were already involved. It was, he grimaced, _their_ fight now. Like Abby said. All of theirs.

"On his way to school, supposedly."

McGee almost fell over. Questions about Gray - they were practically personal. Gibbs was going to _answer _them?

They moved in closer to stand by his desk.

"What'd they bring him in for?" Tony ventured. Better ask while the asking was good.

"Possession of cocaine, assault, evading arrest."

Gibbs looked up and caught the worry in their eyes, edging toward betrayal. They didn't want Gray to be a dealer.

He shrugged. "Said he was with people who were carrying but he doesn't deal or use. Also said there was a fight but he wasn't in it." Gibbs smiled a little and slouched back into his chair. "Didn't deny running away."

Dinozzo recovered first. "Huh. And they caught him. DC Metro? I'm officially impressed."

"They swiped him with a cruiser to slow him down."

"Is he alright?" Ziva frowned.

Gibbs absently tapped the papers on his desk with his fingers. "Looked fine."

Not really an answer. He'd mostly looked fine before, even when he was wounded, until the fever set in. And the truth was Gray looked worn out. But that might just be from spending the night in lockup . . .

"What'd you get off him, Boss?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Didn't get anything. Offered him a ride but he doesn't want us to know where he lives. It sounds like he's been brought in before but the agency wipes the record of it, so he has no rap sheet. Kort claims he's in South Africa right now, which explains why I got tapped to go in and post bail." Gibbs hesitated, straightening his back as he did to cover it. "Gray is in the system as Alan Gibbs."

"As your son," Ziva said slowly.

"Yeah."

McGee frowned. "Boss, that would be . . . I mean – that's – "

"Yeah, McGee. I know."

"They had to set that up weeks ago, at least! It would take that long to make sure that every system station-intake uses - "

"Not just a one-time thing then," Tony cut in.

"I doubt it, Dinozzo," Gibbs said.

Tony studied Gibbs' calm face.

Gray couldn't be . . . could he? The boss would've _never_ let him go. Not to the debriefing. Certainly not out of the debriefing with Kort, of all people. And not skipping off to school after he'd spent the night in jail. Gibbs would've known from the first moment he laid eyes on the kid back in Colombia.

Wouldn't he?

"He's not . . ." Dinozzo's eyes sort of wandered around the bullpen. They were over by the elevator when he'd plucked up his courage and the question started to stumble along again. "I mean, do you think . . . not that it's - but obviously, I mean, it _could_ be - "

Gibbs actually rolled his eyes. "He's not my son, Tony."

"Oh. Ah, good."

His agents all shuffled uncomfortably, like the personal question was a speed bump the conversation needed to heave itself over.

Tony got a far-off look. "But no wonder he wouldn't let us get his prints. He's been hauled in before."

"You think he was in the system as Gibbs' son before we even went to Colombia with him?" Ziva said doubtfully.

"No," Tony said. "But if we'd taken his prints and logged them in a federal database as an unknown person of interest? Red flag, if whoever hacks his records out of the system didn't find and wipe that specific entry before his next arrest. Gibbs was able to get him out this morning without a fuss because they got no hits on his prints. Gray wants to stay out of the system entirely so that when he does go in he looks clean."

Tim was obviously frustrated by the failure of technology to provide the answers they were looking for. "Well he's been good at staying under the radar so far. Without more information on his background no one can find out who he really is, including us."

"We could show his photo around some schools near Clifton Park," Tony suggested. "See what pops up. If he's really enrolled around there we'll find him."

Gibbs rubbed his forehead and leaned forward to rest his forearms on the desk. "He doesn't want us to know where he lives," he said again.

McGee frowned. "Why not?"

"And who cares?" Tony added.

"He doesn't want us to know in case Gibbs is captured and tortured for information," Ziva said promptly.

Tim looked at her incredulously, but Gibbs nodded. "She's right."

"But that's – "

"It's obviously not out of the question," Gibbs said mildly. "Given who we're dealing with. Anyway, he's earned the space. If he wants us to know he'll tell us."

They all took that to mean Gibbs was confident that one day, he would.

Tony frowned. "You believe him? About the possession?"

Gibbs looked up at his senior agent. Tony didn't screw around with drugs, or drug dealers. He'd been too close to what they could do to people, as a cop and as a son. "Yeah, I do."

Dinozzo relaxed a little further. "So what's he doing getting arrested then? He's got to be hanging out with dealers," he said thoughtfully. "Once, maybe, is accidental. But more than once? And they went through all the hacker trouble to make sure you'd be in a position to bail him out. Must have been prepared for it to happen."

"Yeah," Gibbs tapped his fingers again. "Good question." He paused. "Course there's something else that doesn't make sense."

"Just one thing?" Ziva sighed.

He waited for his agents to fill in the blank. He'd been the boss too long to answer all the questions for them, even if the dynamics on this Calera thing were a little different than the norm.

"Uh . . . why the CIA is hacking for Kort's personal contact?" Tim guessed. Gibbs didn't respond, which meant _wrong_. Unless there was a cyber crime related to one of his cases, the boss's interests did not extend to hacking.

"Kort said the CIA had no connection to Gray. But the CIA is covering for him," Ziva said.

Gibbs leaned on an elbow and used his index finger to massage some of the tension out of his forehead. Another _wrong_. However much the CIA actually knew, Gibbs would bet the Agency was tacitly allowing Kort to color outside the lines because a Calera bust could eventually be lucrative, both monetarily and in terms of CIA positioning on the region's chessboard. The Agency brass might be happy to allow the Calera cartel to operate for the time being, but it would cover its bases for any potential outcome.

Even if Gibbs hadn't been aware of that he still wouldn't particularly care about the Agency's motivations. And anyway, the conclusion was wrong. The CIA wasn't covering for Gray. Kort was covering for Gray, and using the CIA to do it.

They had two more seconds.

"Kort," Tony said slowly. "It's Kort driving the boat."

Gibbs straightened and nodded. "Kort."

Tim and Ziva frowned into the distance, shifting their focus from what had happened today to the big picture.

It wasn't the CIA that they needed to figure out in order to understand this situation. It was Kort.

"He said Gray has no connection to the CIA. But what is Kort's connection to Gray, then?" Ziva pondered.

"He worked in South America before he was assigned to La Grenouille. Maybe the kid helped him out the same way he helped us out," Tim said.

"Kid would've been pretty young, probie." Tony said. "Younger, I mean. Kort worked the Frog for years."

"According to the State Department they start young in the cartels," McGee pointed out.

"They do," Gibbs said. "But this goes beyond paying back some help."

"Gray helped Kort and Kort got . . . attached?" Ziva proposed. Her voice was doubtful even as the words formed.

"There's some connection between them," Gibbs agreed. "But attached is – I don't know, adopting the kid, or arranging for someone else to do it. Setting him up with a nice life here or in Colombia. This is something else."

They all tried to turn their minds to the Kort puzzle, ignoring the living, breathing Gibbs puzzle that was right in front of them. But he was acting kind of weird, all this back and forth, it was like -

"Partners," Tony said.

They all looked at him.

"They're like partners," Tony insisted. "At that debriefing – "

Gibbs held up a hand. "They are," he said slowly.

Ziva shook her head. "Gray is a valuable informant, but a child – "

"C'mon Ziva. He gets it done. And he's obviously been doing it for a long time." Tony nodded at McGee, acknowledging his earlier point. "They're working together."

"If you are correct it is still odd that Kort would take on such a 'partner,' even in this one case. He does not work closely with anyone," Ziva insisted. "Why ally himself with a boy who is so vulnerable? Today he had to call Gibbs to bail his partner out, for god's sake!"

"I agree," Gibbs said. "We're missing something. Their connection isn't just a working one - it's personal. Which is why we're gonna dig into Kort."

"Ugh," Tony groaned. He actually looked like he was in pain.

"McGee," Gibbs turned to him. "Kort was informed immediately when you and Abby hacked into the CIA's satellite network. Would he know if you went into other files? Like his own personnel record?"

McGee got that tight, faraway look . . . not the one where he was figuring out the answer. The one where he was translating what he knew into something Gibbs would understand. "It depends on the file. Kort probably knew we went into the Colombian images because he was already monitoring them. They were hot – uh, new – and if he already knew Gibbs was headed to Camp Six he might have been waiting for us to access that server. Files that aren't being watched so closely wouldn't get us the same kind of attention." McGee frowned. "Probably."

Gibbs nodded thoughtfully. "I want to find out as much as we can before we tip our hand that we're looking. What about files that other agencies might keep on him?"

"Well," McGee said slowly, "Whether or not they detect us depends on that agency's protections. But most aren't as paranoid as the CIA. And even if they do realize we're there, Kort would probably only find out if a friend at whatever agency we infiltrated informed him."

Tony snorted at the idea. Kort with friends? "So there's no way he'd find out."

Gibbs nodded. Kort didn't go out of his way to endear himself to other agents, that was for sure. "Look into what the FBI has on him, if anything. Try Immigration too. Do your best not to get caught."

The boss turned to Ziva. "I want to know what he was doing in Colombia before the Frog, and I want to know his personal history."

She nodded. "I can ask my contacts at the CIA. But there is no guarantee that word would not get back to him."

"Know anyone at MI6?"

Ziva smiled slowly. She loved it when Gibbs was devious. "I do."

"Start there. If he was ever actually as British as he sounds they'll have a file. And they're less likely to tell him anything – unless he's a double agent," Gibbs added wryly.

"Boss," McGee offered, "Do you want me to – "

"No, McGee, I do not want. If you get caught hacking British Intelligence it's an international incident, not just a felony."

"Ah," McGee sort of gulped. "Right."

"Go on, get to it." He made shooing gestures with his hands. Gibbs had already yapped more today then he normally did in a week. "But track down the petty officer's friends first."

Tim and Ziva shifted toward their desks. But Tony stayed where he was. Tony figured Gibbs had known about the other thing, with the guards and the fire, so . . . it was definitely possible the boss would know this, too.

And eventually that basement talk had really helped. Not right away. But when he'd had time to work through it . . .

Of course that was why he'd gone to Gibbs' basement that night in the first place, beyond making his case for going to Colombia. With the fire . . . it wasn't generally a lovey-dovey experience, but when Tony was cracking up the boss usually knew how to give him what he needed. Knew when to listen, and how to say what needed to be said. Even if Tony didn't realize, right in the moment, that anything had been given to him at all.

Being able to accept the round-about help that came from a sometimes infuriating distance was one of the requirements of any agent who was going to last on Gibbs' team.

"Hey, Boss," he spoke hesitantly, and the rest of the team paused to listen. "Do you know what the kid meant in that meeting?"

Gibbs looked up irritably from the papers he'd begun going through, impatient not only with the fact that there was a question, but that it made no earthly sense.

" . . . In the debrief," Tony added, "about how he said he came back for us because he had a heart-to-heart. With you."

Tony thought maybe Gibbs and Gray had spoken about something important when the two of them were busting out of Camp Six. He had no idea how that was possible, given Gibbs' dismal Spanish – and the general conversational habits in any language, as far as he could tell, of both Gibbs and Gray. But what other explanation was there? The kid hadn't spoken much at all when Tony was around, that was for sure.

The boss looked down at the papers in front of him – carbon copies of bail forms, the receipt – and shuffled them into a pile, reaching for a fresh folder to put them in. "Not sure."

Tony waited, studying him. 'Not sure' meant Gibbs had a damn good guess. The question was whether he was going to keep it to himself or let the rest of them in on it.

When Gibbs glanced up at Tony his senior agent was watching him seriously. Warily. Gibbs faltered in his movements, drawn back to his basement and Dinozzo's total explosion.

_If I'd let you rot – asshole – you weren't there –_

You weren't there.

Gibbs was well aware that Tony hadn't gone off grid and down to Colombia for the job. He hadn't done it for a friend, either. He'd gone after family. Gibbs knew – how could he not? – that Dinozzo took him as more than a work mentor. Gibbs was a defacto father-figure in some things because Tony's own father . . . well. He wasn't there.

Ziva was the same.

But for people like Tony and Ziva family was different. It wasn't a gift that was just there for the taking. It wasn't automatic, or unconditional. It wasn't free. It was Rule Fourteen all over the place, a compact, a deal - an oath. Something sacred, yes. But still something that could be broken if you walked away from it.

They'd risked everything to pull him out of that hellhole, they'd done things they hated to do. That Gibbs couldn't bear to think of them doing. They did it because they had only one rule for family, really. The one that their own families broke by abandoning them.

They'd come for him even after Gibbs had done the same, essentially, when he left them with no explanation. That was his right as a boss. That's what you did, didn't you? Hand over the reins and move on . . .

But you don't walk out on a family. Not if you want to keep it. Gibbs could throw it back at them now, shut it down. He'd done it before, in some ways, and the team survived. Tony and Ziva would find the support they needed elsewhere, he had no doubt. Hadn't they done that over and over again anyway, taking mentors for fathers? Tony was raised by coaches. Ziva by her commanding officers.

And Gibbs – well, he tended to shy away from oaths these days. From vows of any kind.

But he was reluctant to do it this time. Somewhere along the way he'd already committed himself. It happened slowly, over years – and not with words. With more important things. Actions. Hearts. He'd raised them up in a way, led them, protected them, and maybe because they didn't have families waiting for them outside the job it bled over into more. Until they'd thrown away everything but this, and come for him in Colombia.

Now, somehow, he couldn't walk away. Not again.

Gibbs looked toward the windows, sighing. Thinking back on it. "Just before the patrol grabbed us Gray looked back at me. You remember that?"

"Yes," Ziva said, stepping back toward his desk. "He always heard them approaching first and would indicate where to go. Which way to retreat."

Gibbs shook his head and spoke slowly, going over it once again in his mind. "No," he reminded her. "Not when I was there. That first contact, the two-man patrol, was too close for that. We barely heard them before they were on top of us. If we'd all tried to back out they'd of heard us."

Ziva nodded.

"Gray signaled to stay where we were. I figured he would try to lead them off himself, so I waved him back. Told him to let us handle it. Kid looked surprised," Gibbs said. And he hadn't realized then just how unusual that was. To be able to read anything at all on that face. "He thought we'd want him to deal with it." Gibbs paused. "With the second patrol he looked back to check in with me, must have realized by then that I would hear it about the same time. Anyway, I told him to beat it."

Tony blinked. "You – did the hand thing," the agent performed a half-hearted signal, "and told him to run?"

"Yeah."

"You knew we were outnumbered," Ziva probed, "before you saw them?"

"I counted more than four for sure, approaching from a superior position, and they knew we were there. We wouldn't have made it if we all ran, and they might have opened fire if we'd tried it. But on his own I thought Gray had a shot."

"Did you think he'd come back for you?" Tim asked, cautious. Testing the waters of a Gibbs answering questions.

"No." The boss sat back in his chair and huffed a laugh. "Eight to one? And we were transported by vehicle. Didn't think he could catch up to us even if he wanted to." Gibbs paused again. "Plus he only tranked my guards at the camp. I assumed he wasn't willing to kill for us."

"So the heart-to-heart – ?" McGee ventured.

There was a bit of silence. Gibbs wasn't sure how to answer that. Didn't they see it?

"The CIA Boss," Tony said thoughtfully, "In the debriefing. He was surprised the kid came back for us. Gray must not have a history of going out of his way for other teams stuck in that jungle. But I bet whoever those guys were, they didn't go out of their way for Gray either."

Ziva nodded. "I agree. It was a true heart-to-heart, as you say, one without words. Gibbs tried to protect Gray from the patrols, and that earned his trust, or perhaps his respect. Ironically, he came back for us because you told him to run."

"Or," McGee spoke up with the less appealing possibility, "the 'heart-to-heart' line meant nothing and he just believes that Gibbs was valuable enough to be worth the risk."

Gibbs was willing to let that go, but Ziva spoke up. "No, I do not believe so. Gray could have saved our lives with very little risk to his own and still earned our loyalty. But he chose to attack at a much less advantageous moment, simply to protect us from harm."

Gibbs nodded to show his agreement, though he wasn't actually sure that he or Dinozzo would have gotten the same consideration. It was Ziva the kid had risked his life to shield.

McGee simply accepted that, and slotted the new puzzle pieces into place. "So your efforts to protect him earned his assistance – his protection in return. You think Kort might have done the same, to earn his trust? Protected Gray?" McGee pondered, his mind leaping ahead. "Or more, for the two of them to accept each other like they do."

Gibbs nodded. "It's possible. Find out. _After_ you find the petty officer."

While his agents busied themselves at their desks he got up and walked upstairs. Gibbs would make some of his own inquiries from MTAC.


	33. Hunting

**Chapter 33: Hunting**

They got the Calera break Gibbs was waiting for less than two weeks later. Two off-duty Marines were shot and killed trying to buy a dime of pot. Someone was after the dealer and the Marines were standing next to the marked man when shooters pulled up and sprayed the alley. Ironically the dealer survived.

Which was fine, since Gibbs got to "interview" him at the hospital, in a morphine-induced haze. The dealer said he was behind in payments to his supplier, and his supplier had a strict collection policy. Pay or die.

Abby looked at a bunch of spores with her microscope, went on and on for ten minutes about the ecological wonders of a rain forest, and finally declared that the pot their dead Marines were buying was Colombian. Almost certainly from the same region where the Calera camps were based. Gibbs gave her two Caf-Pows that day, and an extra hug too.

The team tracked down the supplier who ordered the hit. They had him in custody two days later.

But this guy wasn't a kid on a corner. He dealt every drug under the sun and had for decades, making a pretty nice living for himself. Gibbs leaned on him for six more days, and got nothing.

Since the dirtbag would be running his empire from prison anyway Gibbs swallowed the bile, asked silent forgiveness from the Marines' families, and did what he never did. He worked with the legal department to put together a deal.

After the paperwork was signed the supplier revealed that _some_ of his product _might _come from Colombia, but he wouldn't know because he got it from a couple of the bigger DC suppliers. He coughed up two street names. "The Preacher" and "AK" – short, charmingly, for "Amigo Killer."

Now the dirtbag who killed their Marines _might _go up for parole before he died of old age. Gibbs personally walked the guy back to his cell in holding just so he could have the pleasure of throwing him in it, and then he went to Vance.

He knocked and poked his head in. "You have a minute?"

Vance was typing on his laptop. "You knocked. I'm already worried enough to make a minute."

Gibbs stepped in and closed the door behind him, taking the liberty of sitting in one of the conference table chairs. "Director," he said. "I'm concerned about the rise in drug use among our service men and women."

Vance sat back in his chair and frowned at Gibbs. "Let me guess. You'd like to volunteer your time in a counseling program."

Gibbs smiled. "I think my time might be better invested on the supply end of things."

"The drive-by Marines?"

Gibbs nodded. "The supplier went for the deal. Gave up a couple names."

"And?"

"Well," Gibbs shrugged. "Drug use in the ranks is up. I think we've got to hit back, and not just at the small game." Gibbs made a sort of stair-gesture with his hand. "We should go up the chain."

Vance just kept eyeing him. And finally said, "You're never more chipper than when you're suicidal, Gibbs."

"Not suicidal. Hunting."

Vance brought the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest. "You want time to go up the chain."

"Some of the major crimes caseload will need to go to other teams or my people will burn out. If that's not possible I'll take a leave of absence and do this myself."

Vance rubbed his forehead. "You would, too," he muttered. And the rest of Gibbs' team would follow. Finally he looked up. "Alright. But keep me in the loop. Once you get going the other agencies are sure to come pounding at my door."

Gibbs nodded carelessly, already standing.

"Gibbs, I mean that," Vance said sharply. "This cartel is serious bad news. I don't want to be caught unaware when hell itself is brought down on _my_ agency just because you've got a pole up your ass about this one particular drug lord. No going off the reservation, no lone ranger cowboy crap. People will die. And while that's acceptable if it's _you_, since you're the one riding the pole, the cartel is unlikely to stop there."

Gibbs nodded again as he moved toward the door, looking somewhere between offended and hurt. And like he really had to run because he was about to go out and buy himself his favorite flavor of ice cream cone. "Alright Leon, I got it. Sheesh."

He practically skipped out of the office.

Vance shook his head and went back to his email, feeling a weird churn of worry and pride in his gut. NCIS usually waited for the crime to come to them – that was the nature of law enforcement. But now his best team was going out there to meet it, switching to the offensive. Vance smiled down at his paperwork.

They were going hunting.

**x**

The trouble with prey that's higher up the food chain is that it's better at not getting caught. They identified Preacher and AK and set up surveillance. They pried into their lives as much as possible without giving away the fact that they were prying. The guys they were trailing were only midlevel management, but still had a lot of money to throw around. If the suppliers had gone so far as to buy a few dirty cops even a clandestine warrant would ruin the game.

Gibbs' team focused on arresting foot soldiers, catching them in crimes large and small, leaning on them and waiting for one that had the right combination of good intel and weak character to crack it all open. But the dirtbags they were after were careful and, apparently, petrifying. There were cracks, but none that went high enough up the chain to satisfy Gibbs. Nothing that led solidly to Preacher or AK.

At first local metro was pissed. NCIS had no official jurisdiction and Gibbs' thread from two dead Marines to half a city's worth of street pushers was pretty damn thin. But then the LEOs realized that Gibbs was willing to bargain. NCIS had federal resources that were damn handy and Gibbs was able to get miraculously fast turn-around on forensics, legal crap, special equipment requests – hell, pretty much anything you could ask for. And he wasn't grabby with the credit, either. Gibbs let the local guys have the glory. All he wanted was the information.

Word got around and the boss became bizarrely popular. Tony was already popular because he was charming, one of the guys. Gibbs was more like a grumpy mascot. The originally suspicious beat cops and cynical detectives turned a sudden corner and, despite the fact that Gibbs was a pain in the ass, decided they loved him – hard. Word was that Gibbs had a son, or a nephew, or maybe a little brother who got mixed up in drugs, and now he was out for blood. Tony might have had something to do with that rumor. The LEOs ate it up.

The FBI was another story. A guy high up in their DC drug task force named Dargas was apparently assigned to deal with Gibbs, since whenever they went near a scene or a lead that the FBI was already involved with it was Section Chief Dargas who got in Gibbs' face. He was tall and wide with a big head and thinning, slicked back salt-and-pepper hair.

Dargas was what Tony called an unholy crusader. There'd been guys like him on the vice squad he worked in Baltimore. Nobody particularly liked the pathetic, dangerous perps they chased down day in and day out, especially in Vice. But the unholy crusaders loathed them. They hated every suspect and they hated every case. They hated it so much they got off on it. They were the ones that suspects – and plenty of cops – knew instinctively to avoid.

Dargas had assembled a whole team of unholy crusaders.

It gave Tony the creeps. Gibbs just hated him on sight.

And it all hit the fan in November, 2200 hours on a Friday night. Tony was at a bar with a frat brother, listening to marriage woes and trying not to feel too old, when Gibbs called. Tony held up a finger mid-woe.

"Yeah Boss."

"Dinozzo. FBI sting this afternoon went bad, they've got one agent dead and two missing. Dargas is leading a sweep of pretty much every drug den in a ten mile radius of the disappearance. Staging area's a lot in Anacostia – Abby's sending you coordinates."

Tony could feel the hang-up coming. He was already on his feet.

"Dargas is inviting us in on it?"

"No, Dinozzo. I'm inviting myself. Meet you there." Gibbs hung up.

Damn. Their first weekend off in three and Gibbs was inviting himself on cases. Not even NCIS cases. Another agency's cases.

Then again, two missing agents . . .

"Gotta go, Pat. Listen man, just suck it up and buy her some flowers, would you? You'll feel better. Give you a call next weekend." If he ever got out of the office.

The lot's location was already in his phone. Tony made it in eighteen minutes and parked across the street, staring at the scene as he climbed out of his car. There were three white FBI trailers pulled in a loose circle, serving as command posts and generating electricity for four massive floodlights. There must have been fifty FBI agents standing around, watching over the circle. It was filled with what looked like two hundred people, hands secured behind their backs with zip ties.

Maybe half of them looked really dangerous. But all of them were tipping between bored and mutinous.

The boss was already there, getting yelled at by Dargas. Oddly, Gibbs was just letting the other man yell. Then again, one dead agent and two missing got you a lot of slack.

Dargas spun on his heel and stalked away as Tony walked up. Tony and Gibbs looked at each other and then out over the field of people.

"This is . . . This is – "

"Yeah," Gibbs said.

"_Insane_."

"Oh yeah."

Gibbs shoved a piece of paper at Tony and he grabbed it absently, still looking out over the scene. The paper had photos and identifying features of the missing agents. Kyle Hannigan and Angela Monaco. Both early thirties, both ten years in. Kyle looked Irish and Angela looked blonde.

"Dead agent is Manny Garcas, shot in the back of the head. Executed. Found dead at the scene. No other bodies." Gibbs nodded to a house across the street that was surrounded by yellow crime scene tape and yet more agents. "Ziva and McGee are out canvassing with the FBI."

"What're we doing?"

"Observing interrogations."

Tony frowned. Random interrogations, from this sweep? They didn't even think the FBI sting was specifically related to Londono's cartel. Gibbs might as well find suspects connected back to the Caleras by throwing darts at the phone book.

"Why are we doing that?"

Gibbs nodded to the seething mess of suspects under the flood lamps. "Got someone we know in there."

"Yeah? Who?"

He was hoping to see Preacher or AK, which was unlikely, but a man could dream. Tony was already looking closer, though, and saw him before Gibbs bothered to reply.

"Oh shit."

"Yeah."

Gray was in profile, sitting close to a kid about his age who already had a case of the shakes.

The two agents exchanged another look. Dargas' men weren't exactly life-threatening, but they were cruel even on a good day. Dead and missing agents would make it exponentially worse. No one would want a friend under the control of a team like that on a day like this. Not to mention Gray was one of their only guaranteed links back to the Calera cartel.

Gibbs didn't know, yet, exactly how Gray connected to Londono or that world. But he was willing to bet that Gray's information would be important in the fight he was gearing up for. If Gray was somehow exposed or swept permanently into the system because of Dargas' wave of arrests then that source could well be lost. Hell, if whoever the kid was hiding from found him that source could be dead.

Anyway, as long as the kid wasn't breaking any laws – well, any really bad ones – Gibbs considered protecting Gray from enraged and/or shoddy law enforcement as part of the deal, covered in the heart-to-heart. _You get my back, I'll get yours._

It was Gibbs' turn. Given how fucked he'd been in that camp it would stay his turn for a good long time. And it was clear, now. Obvious. The reason they pulled him out. The reason Gibbs was still alive. It wasn't complicated, though the fact that Gray had risked so much just to get _him_ had obscured it.

It was _protection_. From this, right here. This was Gibbs' jungle, and Gray was . . . whatever he was doing, he needed someone who could help him survive it.

"Kort called you?"

Gibbs took a sip of the tall coffee he was holding and smiled. Dinozzo eyed him warily.

But of course Kort hadn't needed to call him – Gibbs was already on guard. The kid chose well.

"No. I heard the sweep going down on the scanner and came to check it out."

He'd called Kort, though, when he recognized the kid, hesitating only a moment before leaving a terse message. Because there was a limit to the protection Gibbs could provide in a situation like this. An NCIS agent couldn't interfere in a hunt for missing FBI agents without raising all kinds of hell, not to mention red flags about his connection to Gray, if Gibbs was obvious about protecting the kid. Kort had more backchannel resources, provided he was in any position to use them. For all Gibbs knew the man was working in a cell-phone-free zone, selling guns in Tibet, or buying them in Timbuktu.

Most of the roundups had been there for five or six hours by the time Tony arrived. Tension was already roiling off the mass of people, many of whom looked like they would be unstable even on a happy day, in their happy place. As he and Gibbs watched a fight broke out and spread through the group, a knot of frustrated men wrestling and yelling and eventually kicking the hell out of each other. Gray watched and managed to haul his oblivious buddy out of the way, working awkwardly with his hands behind his back. The observing FBI agents took their time wading in and breaking it up.

Gibbs opened his phone and put a call in to Fornell as they watched, letting him know in no uncertain terms that a clusterfuck was in the works in this lot. Tobias promised he would do what he could to speed up transfers to cells. Gibbs told him to put in a request for medics while he was at it.

"Hey boss," Tony turned to Gibbs suddenly. "If he's in the system as your kid, if they have his prints on file . . ." These people knew who Gibbs was. Gray could kiss his protective anominity goodbye, and Gibbs would be in for an interrogation of his own involving the falsification of records.

"Yeah. I put a call in to Kort but he didn't pick up. Abby's working on it."

Tony and Gibbs leaned against a police cruiser's bumper and watched the circus. Eventually the shaking boy that Gray was looking after started to puke. Cries of disgust and some shoving erupted from the men around him.

Gibbs stalked off.

A few minutes later an FBI agent approached and helped Gray haul the shaking kid over to a group of junkies who were all just as sick, or close to it. The agent switched the sick kid's cuffed hands to the front and set some plastic bags and extra water bottles down next to him.

Tony circled around, keeping his distance, and noticed that Gray was bleeding from a cut on his head. A lot of the suspects were roughed up. Addicts were notoriously unpredictable, it was safest to take them down hard. Tony'd done his share of that, though he didn't think he'd ever done quite that much damage to a kid.

Twenty minutes later Gibbs returned, a pair of medics in tow who immediately started to treat the worst off in the group. Not long after that buses began hauling suspects back to the FBI pens. They skipped the addict Gray was with, since interviewing him in that state would be a colossal waste of time. Whoever he was, he stayed behind with the rest of the really sick ones, watched over by the medics until he could be transferred to a clinic.

Gibbs put a call in to McGee, telling him to get his butt to the lot, pronto. They knew Gray took care of his own, not strangers. That addict was one of his.

**x**

At FBI Headquarters Gibbs and Dinozzo watched a series of useless interviews that went absolutely nowhere. Everyone there was charged with possession and evading arrest and every single one of them was tested for gunshot residue. It would take forever to process the results for almost three hundred people and after a conversation with Abby, Gibbs was convinced that the tests would be so unreliable they'd be next to useless anyway.

The real search for the missing agents was going on elsewhere. In the investigation at the crime scene, in the forensics surrounding the dead agent's murder, in the search on the streets. But Dargas's crew was big enough to carry out a targeted investigation and at the same time use the momentum they'd have behind them at the Bureau to make a career-enhancing splash with this shotgun sweep. The best agents were out in the field. The B team running the interrogations seemed to be operating in a red haze of rage and entitlement, all fueled by the extraordinary circumstances and total lack of oversight. There weren't enough public defenders immediately available and the mass of strung-out men and women weren't smart enough, or didn't care enough, to wait for the public aid attorneys to be assigned to them. They fought with each other, they fought with the agents, and they mostly got the shit beat out of them.

It was volatile, it was unnecessary, and it was sloppy. Gibbs was not happy.

He checked in with Ziva and McGee at dawn. Gray's addict friend was admitted to Bethesda, at least temporarily, under McGee's watch and the weight of Leon Vance's name. Gibbs reminded himself to call Vance.

Meanwhile Ziva and the FBI agents she rode with, ones from Fornell's section, had nothing after a night of searching known gang members' lairs. Gibbs sent them both home to sleep.

He and Tony were walking out of Dargas' bullpen, heading to the holding pens and stuffing down the last of a few cheese danishes they'd lifted from a breakfast tray, when Gibbs' phone rang. There was no preamble.

"You can't get him out from the inside?"

Gibbs chewed and swallowed. Of course he _could_. But. "Not without force. Course then we'd both be felons."

"Won't they release him fairly quickly anyway? They can't have anything on him."

"No idea. This wasn't a normal bust."

"There's a definite risk you'll be recognized if you claim him?"

"Yeah. This squad knows me. Listen," Gibbs frowned, glancing around. He stepped into a quieter, empty alcove, Tony following. "The situation here isn't friendly, Kort. These guys are on the warpath. I think you want to get the kid out as soon as possible."

Kort didn't ask questions. He just trusted it. "Alright. I'll arrange it. But it will take some time."

"How long?"

"Afternoon, at the earliest. End of the day latest."

Half a day was Kort's idea of "some time"? Gibbs relaxed. That wasn't so bad. "Okay."

"You'll stay with him."

"Yeah," Gibbs said.

**x**

From the transport Gray was stuffed into one of several holding pens already overflowing with suspects. Gibbs didn't want to call attention to him by asking about his status specifically, so he left Tony to keep an eye on things and grabbed a nap on Fornell's floor while Tobias was out in the field. They'd just have to monitor the situation until Kort could get his spook machinery moving.

Tony woke Gibbs up at noon with a cup of coffee, waiting for him to sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes before giving him an update. The room was dim, the pulled blinds shutting out an overcast day.

"No word on Hannigan or Monaco, boss. Feebs have been interrogating and releasing the obvious dead-end suspects from the pens ever since morning processing came in. They're down to just under forty now and it looks like they're sticking to it."

"Gray?"

"He's one of the forty."

What could the kid possibly . . . ? "Any idea why?"

"Nope. They've got reasons for the ones they've kept, it wasn't random," Tony said tiredly. "But they're not sharing them with me."

Gibbs nodded and stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back. He called McGee and found that his youngest agent had just gotten back to the Navy Yard and was lending a hand with the massive effort to comb though the city's electronic surveillance, looking for any sign of the missing agents or suspects related to the case. When Gibbs asked about Ziva McGee said he hadn't seen her. Technically, since it was a Saturday and they weren't working a case, she was on her own time.

But that didn't sit right.

McGee was a boy scout, so he was spending his free Saturday doing what he could for his fellow Feds. Ziva was no boy scout. But she _was_ like Gibbs – she kept a tally of people she owed, and she paid her debts.

Right now she owed Gray. And there was some kind of connection between Ziva and Gray, or at least there had been, out in the jungle. He thought she'd be in full bore mother lion mode, doing anything she could in the team's collective effort to get Gray off the hook.

His gut was itchy.

Gibbs hung up on McGee and punched up her speed dial. She answered on the first ring.

"Gibbs."

"Ziva. Where are you?"

"I am here."

"Here?"

"The FBI holding pens. That is where you are, is it not?"

Gibbs frowned. "What're you doing?"

A pause. "I am waiting to observe Gray's interrogation."

Gibbs cast a look at Tony. He was already lying relaxed on the floor, his jacket bunched up under his head, eyes closed. Gibbs could tell he was listening.

"Where exactly?"

"Sublevel Two. The hallway to the right as you exit the North Wing elevators."

Gibbs took a moment to fix that position mentally. The FBI building was massive.

He hung up and looked at his phone, then at Tony, whose eyes were still closed.

"Think she's got a thing for him, Boss."

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "I'll call you in a few hours."

He was pretty sure Tony was asleep before he even reached the door.


	34. Tracks

**Chapter 34: Tracks**

He found Ziva sitting with her back against a wall in a scruffy basement hallway. The wall was painted a screaming, godawful blue.

He stopped and looked her over as she rose to her feet.

"The pens are down there," she nodded to her left. "And the interrogation rooms are that way," she dipped her head to the right. "They have spent about an hour with each of the suspects so far. Gray has not been interviewed yet this morning."

An hour?

"How long have you been here?"

"I arrived at 0630."

Six hours ago. Half an hour after he'd called McGee and Ziva and told them to go home.

"Thought I told you to get some sleep."

"I am not tired."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. Ziva had an independent streak, but outright defiance was rare. "Has Dargas been by?"

She gave him her usual, thorough rundown. "He was here briefly around 0800 this morning, then left. His agents are running the interrogations. I think they are ones that he doesn't trust, or are particularly inexperienced. The better agents are in the field. I looked over the pen briefly. Gray's head has been bandaged. I spoke to an agent and he showed me the names of the suspects in the pen. There is no Gray or Alan Gibbs on the list, nor any permutation of either name. Unless he is using a name we do not know I believe he has been given a number."

So Gray hadn't been carrying ID and he hadn't talked, even to give his name.

"Any lawyers come by?"

"I do not believe so. Though I do not know if that is because none were requested or if those that were requested have yet to be assigned."

Gibbs rubbed his forehead. Normally he wasn't a fan. But a lawyer might have at least gotten Gray out of general holding, and maybe another visit by a medic. He didn't like the idea of the kid in the same pens with grown men. And a head injury wasn't something to screw around with either.

"The agent you talk to say why they're keeping the ones they are?"

"I asked and he gave me a general answer. Most of them were retained because of violent offenses in their records or because they are suspected of having a connection to the gang targeted by the sting." She studied his face and continued hopefully. "Perhaps they have not released Gray because he has not been identified. If they have not been able to bring up his record and confirm that it is clean - "

Gibbs shook his head. "They've run his prints by now. They already know he doesn't have a record."

Nothing that was still in the system, anyway.

They stood there for a minute in silence. Gibbs took up a post next to her, leaning against the wall and sipping his fresh coffee, staring at the blue on the opposite wall until his eyes hurt.

Waiting for Gray to walk by wasn't exactly a two-person job and Gibbs already had Dinozzo in the wings. But Ziva didn't seem to be going anywhere.

"Something on your mind, Ziva?"

She shifted uncomfortably, but didn't answer. Also unusual. The minutes crawled by, the buzz of the bare yellow bulbs overhead the only sound.

Something was on her mind, then, but she wouldn't - or couldn't - say what it was.

Gibbs' fingers tightened around the cup in his hand.

Ziva didn't explode like Dinozzo when she felt betrayed. She retreated, kept herself hidden. Gaining her trust had been like peeling an onion, progress measured in years, in thin, barely perceptible layers. After the Reynosas and Colombia some of those layers had inevitably reappeared. He knew it wasn't the murder that really bothered her. She understood the madness of revenge, the desire for swift justice, even if she resisted them herself. It was the fact that he had almost been caught. That he'd almost been sent away. And the reason, that was important too - he simply hadn't cared enough to stay. It made him unreliable. She'd nearly been abandoned by yet another father.

Like Abby said, and Dinozzo had screamed. He hadn't fought for them. He wasn't there.

The miracle was that she'd ever achieved any trust in him at all. Betrayed by her family, failed by her first team, manipulated and deceived by her mentors - Ziva should be like Kort now, or Gray. Trust so locked away it was all but nonexistent, like a muscle that had atrophied.

But she wasn't like Kort. She'd come back from it, back from her family and Mossad, Rivkin and Somalia. She'd come back to him, and his team. Sometimes it still surprised him.

Even now, in her silence, she had found her way to trusting him. It was tentative, like it had been years ago. But Ziva wasn't hiding her unease from him. She just couldn't bring herself to explain it.

It was enough, for now.

Gibbs pushed himself off the wall and walked down to the pens. There were two large holding cells in use on this floor, just under twenty men in each. A lone agent sat in a cushy wheely chair nearby, a pile of files by his feet and one open in his lap.

Gray was in the second pen. The good spots – on bunks, up against the walls – were taken by the larger men, the relative comfort roughly corresponding to the rate of muscle growth. The only detainee Gibbs cared about was on the floor, his back up against the bars, head resting on the metal behind him. He wasn't curled in on himself, exactly. It was a defensive pose, but loose enough to look confident.

A fine line, and a necessary one. Too much confidence would attract violent attention. Too little - well, in a place like this, acting like prey would make you prey.

Gray looked like he might be sleeping, but it was hard to tell without seeing his face. Bright blood stained the white butterfly bandage wrapped around his temple. Dark, dried blood matted his hair and covered the right shoulder of his t-shirt.

Gibbs scanned the rest of the pen. Gray wasn't the only one sporting an injury, but he was the youngest in there by a long shot.

"Hey pappy, you come to take me home?" One of the men in a bunk, biceps bigger than his head, smiled at Gibbs like a cat.

Many of the men turned to look at him then, but Gray didn't move.

_I don't like it. The cells._

Gibbs responded in case the kid was awake. "That depends." He took a step closer to the bars. "Do you know where Agents Hannigan and Monaco are?"

"Oh, the little agents you lost. Yeah, saw the pictures. Hey man," Big Arms laughed, "you think if I knew where a sweet ass like that was I would tell you?" The punk leered and smacked his lips. "Sorry, I would keep that little piece all to myself." He bucked his hips and grabbed his crotch to the catcalls of the men in the pen.

"Guess you're not going home then," Gibbs said, and walked away.

He passed Ziva on the way to the elevators and met her eyes briefly. "Let me know if they move him."

He went to find Dargas.

Dargas was out of the building, busting down doors somewhere, but Gibbs did find what he was pretty sure was the man's third-in-command. "What's the plan with the suspects in the pens downstairs?"

The agent looked up at him, tense and sleepless, rage lurking in the corners of his eyes. It was a look that Gibbs knew well enough from his own worst days at NCIS. One agent dead and two vanished into thin air was a Very Bad Day, especially as they closed in on missing for a full twenty-four. The Golden Hours were long gone.

"Agents are interviewing them," the man said shortly.

"Any of them turn up with residue?"

"No."

Gibbs flexed his jaw, feeling stuck. He could point out that one of the people they were holding was obviously a juvenile, and also had a head injury, but he didn't think a plea for sympathy was going to get him very far. For all he knew this guy was Mother Theresa yesterday, but now he was out for blood.

"I could do some of the interviews, help to move the process along."

"We have no shortage of manpower, Gibbs. Get out of my way." Gibbs stepped aside and the agent walked off, maps of city blocks in his hands.

Gibbs suspected the guy was going to say that before he even asked, since it was obvious. Every resource of the entire FBI was available to this squad right now, which meant no shortage of agents. Even if that wasn't true Gibbs was sure there was no better way to get on Dargas' shit list than to be accommodating to Gibbs.

He asked anyway for one simple reason. He hated waiting.

He hit the head, got another coffee, and went back downstairs. To wait.

He found Ziva motionless but alert, in the exact same position she'd been in when he left. He shook his head. Whatever bug had crawled up her butt, it was a big one. "I'm going in to observe the other interrogations. Call me when they move him." She nodded and he walked off.

He was watching a pair of FBI agents scream at a dealer, and the dealer scream back, when she called.

"Room six," was all she said.

He joined her in the viewing alcove less than a minute later. Gray was alone in the interrogation room, sitting motionless in a chair facing them. His hands were secured behind his back again and the stain on the bandage at his hairline had grown. Gibbs winced as he looked him over. He could see now that the entire right side of the kid's face had been scratched up. It was raw.

Probably went down hard on a sidewalk and been dragged.

Ziva held a hand up to the glass. "They are keeping the rooms cold."

Gibbs glanced at her. The situation wasn't ideal, but no matter how rough Dargas' men got it wasn't likely to get physically dangerous, either. "He'll be fine."

She leaned toward the glass, her focus intense on Gray's expressionless face. "Everyone has a breaking point," she said, voice low.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed and he turned to face her. Ziva's tone carried some sort of awareness of the situation that he didn't have.

Personal trust was one thing. That was negotiable. Earned. Relevant facts about the job, or at least the kid sitting on the other side of the glass, was something entirely different. When he spoke again his voice was sharp.

"You know something I don't, Ziva?"

She hesitated for a long moment. "I do not like this, Gibbs."

Her voice was firm and cold. She really didn't like it. And she hadn't answered the question. She did know something. Something that was freaking her out.

He looked at her closely, jerked his phone open, and called Fornell.

"What do you want, Jethro." Tobias' voice held a weariness that Gibbs had never heard in it before.

"Wanted to warn you that you've got a lawsuit brewing down here."

Gibbs could hear office sounds in the background. He wondered where Dinozzo was sleeping if Tobias was back.

"I couldn't care less."

"Believe me, Fornell. I'm doing you a favor. Tell me what this kid is down here for or you're going to have a problem." Gibbs' tone made it clear that he would make sure there was a problem.

"They've already weeded out the misfits. The only suspects still in the pens are legitimate possibilities."

"Possibilities for _what_?"

"For information, Gibbs."

"A juvenile with no record and a head wound? I want to know what he's in here for."

There was a pause on the line. Then the other man came through loud and clear. But mostly loud. "You don't get to order me around, you arrogant son of a bitch. I'm not one of your lapdog agents! Why don't _you_ tell _me_ what the hell your problem is? Why are you even here?"

Gibbs pulled the phone away from his ear a bit. He'd always known Fornell had a temper, but it was usually slow to emerge. Today he was definitely on a short fuse. Not that Gibbs could blame him. "Just tell me what you know about this kid, Tobias. Will you please do that?" he sighed.

The please got a few seconds of shocked silence. "Hold on," Fornell said grudgingly.

There were computer clicking sounds, and then a conversation in the background, and then silence, more conversation . . . Gibbs ground his teeth.

"You still there?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, what's the name."

"No name."

"Oh," Fornell growled. "And that's not suspicious."

There was a pause.

"The only no-name still in holding is number 87. No ID found on him. Hasn't identified himself or asked for a lawyer or a guardian. Known to carry a weapon. Prolonged drug use," Fornell concluded. "Weapons and drugs, Gibbs. That's what this is all about, in case you haven't heard."

"Known to carry? By who?"

"Says here other witnesses said he's known to have a gun."

"Agents didn't find anything on him?"

"No."

"And the drugs? Also your upstanding witnesses?"

There was a pause and more clicking.

"Tracks," Fornell said smugly. "Don't call me again unless you have information on our missing agents." The line went dead.

Gibbs shut his phone and walked out of observation, reappearing in the interview room a second later. The kid's hands were cuffed behind his back, arms pressed between the back of the chair and his body.

"Stand up."

Gibbs had to twist the thin wrists and shove up loose sleeves to see his inner arms. The only scars he could see were old, but they were there. The tracks of a heroin addict. He stared at them hard. Any agent would know that if there were old ones on his arms there could be fresh hidden almost anywhere.

"When was the last time you shot up?"

Gray ignored him.

Gibbs walked out and slammed back into the viewing room. Gray was just settling back into the chair when Gibbs came to a stop next to Ziva. "He's here for the long haul."

"He is not a drug user," she hissed.

Gibbs ran a hand through his hair, frustration compelling him to move even though he was effectively boxed in. How the kid got those marks didn't matter. Not today. Not here. "Well, he's obviously got a history of it, Ziva. The only way to know whether he's using now is to test him and the FBI isn't going to bother. He'd be here for awhile even if he did lawyer up."

Ziva shook her head. "He will not speak, not unless he is tortured until he breaks." Her voice was dark and thin. "And these agents – I observed them earlier, Gibbs. They will push until they get a response."

Gibbs didn't have a chance to follow up on that. Two young men, part of Dargas' team, entered the room. One sat in the chair across from Gray and one propped himself against the wall behind him.

"Number 87," the one at the table said. "How you doing, 87? Did you have a good night?"

Gray stared neutrally at the man across from him, eyes so pale and dull in the dingy room they almost matched the walls.

"Gibbs," Ziva said quickly. "The camera."

He folded his arms across his chest and kept his eyes on the interrogation. "They don't need a record for court, Ziva. All they want is information that will lead to their agents."

His voice was calmer than Ziva's, but he felt the unease start to rise. She was right. A camera would be a protection for the kid at this point. Gray wasn't in the system; he was young but unclaimed.

_Weak_, in other words, to his interrogators. Vulnerable. _Prey_. If Gray stubbornly stayed quiet the FBI agents would read his silence as some sort of pathetic defiance. An alluring mix for a pair of bullies riding high.

"Still quiet today, eh eighty-seven? You know, my friend and I were talking and we think you deserve a name. Nobody's a number, right?"

"That's right," the agent behind Gray spoke for the first time.

"So we had a vote and we decided to call you mouse. In Espanol that's ratón, did you know that?"

The agent paused as if he expected Gray to answer, and then leaned forward. "I can't hear you ratón, did you say something?"

"I don't think he said anything." The second agent.

"Well rat, believe me, I know the value of silence. On an ordinary day I would give a shit what you have to say," the first agent said cheerfully. "But this isn't an ordinary day, is it, rat? And you know why, don't you?"

Another pause giving Gray time to speak.

"I told you before. But I'm going to tell you again just in case you're as slow as you look. How's that sound?"

Silence.

The agent flipped lazily through the slim file in front of him. "You know, if you're missing a tongue or something like that, rat, it would only be polite to nod yes or no. Do you know how to nod yes or no?"

The agent behind Gray stepped forward and seized a fistful of hair, pulling the kid upright in his seat.

"That's okay." The first agent was calm and friendly still, all sunshine. "My friend is going to teach you. Now this is yes," Gray's head was dragged forward and then back again. "And this is no." He jerked from side to side and then was released, his body dropping an inch back into the seat.

The agent sitting at the table laughed. "Pretty good. Now you try."

Gray was still for just a moment before the agent behind him seized the hair on top of his head again and jerked it down in a nod.

"It's okay if you're not a fast learner," Sitting Agent said quietly, closing the file. "We're going to help you out."

The guy was good, or would have been without the over-reliance on intimidation. The problem with that approach was that it didn't work on everyone. Seldom on the well-trained officers that Gibbs so often faced across the table. And he would eat that file folder before it worked on Gray.

"We've got lots of time to teach you. Do you know why that is?"

Gray's head went back and forth in a parody of _no_, the tendons in his neck standing out. The skin along his head had been wrenched by the pulled hair and a thin line of blood trickled out from under the bandage, smearing along his temple.

"Gibbs," Ziva whispered. He was completely still beside her.

Gibbs didn't bother to look at his agent. The situation wasn't ideal, but Gray could handle it. "We'll just get thrown out of the building if we go in there now, Ziva."

"It will be worth it," she growled.

"No, it won't."

Something extreme would have to happen to get the FBI's own kicked off an interrogation in this building. Something more extreme than what they were seeing here. And on Dargas' crew who knew if someone better would come along to take their place? Meanwhile he and Ziva would get themselves banned from the building, not even able to observe.

"I'm going to tell you why we're willing to spend our valuable time teaching you manners, rat. It's because some of our agents are missing. Our friends. Do you know what that means?"

Gray's hair was released and a slap to the back of the skull sent his head forward into his chest. "Oh, of course you do. Because you have friends too, don't you, rat?" Another slap to the back of the head, hard enough to rock his body into the table. "I know you do because I've spent some time talking to them. And do you know what they say?"

The standing agent jerked Gray's head back and forth. Gibbs noted the kid kept his body relaxed. It went against instinct, but if you could do it when you were being manhandled it would keep the strain on the muscles to a minimum. A learned response.

"Well, I'll tell you what they say. They say you're a dangerous little guy, rat. They say you know your way around. They say you know people, you know things. You know dope. Well, it's obvious you know dope, isn't it? You're all marked up, little rat."

His head slapped forward and a few drops of blood hit the table. "Hey," the agent tsked. "Don't get your dirty dope blood on my files, rat. You should be more careful."

The head slapped forward again.

"I like this new effort at communication. That's real good, rat, I appreciate it." The sitting agent leaned an elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. "The trouble is, what we need to know isn't really yes or no kind of information. But there are lots of ways to make a rat squeal. Did you know that?"

The agent behind him jerked Gray's head no.

The sitting one reached inside his jacket and set something on the table in front of him. "Do you know what this is, rat?"

Gray's head jerked no. "That's okay. Didn't think you would, since you haven't been in lockup before. It's a Taser."

The agent looked at Gray's neutral face for a long moment. "Now I want you to think real hard, before we get started, and see if any information comes to mind. Anything you'd like to share. Where you were when Agent Garcas was killed would be a real good place to start."

Silence.

Sitting Agent shrugged. "No? Okay. Well, first things first. We need to make sure you haven't been doing any of that H you like so much overnight. That could lead to complications, rat. First is the search. Arms up."

The agent standing behind Gray reached down and jerked his t-shirt up. It caught under his shoulders, since Gray couldn't possibly lift his arms while they were tied behind his back. The fabric wrenched against his arms and stretched along the neckline until it was finally pulled over his head, the tight fit dragging along his face and opening the new scabs there, smearing the skin with blood.

His body – there were a lot of scars.

Sitting Agent whistled. "Well you're scrawny, rat, but you've definitely been around the block, haven't you? I don't see any new tracks, though." His voice was mock thoughtful. "Do you see tracks, Fred?"

The standing agent – Fred – hauled Gray to his feet by the shirt now tangled around his elbows. "Can't say I do."

"Better keep looking, then. You know, I hope that shirt still fits when we're done, rat. You should be more careful with your clothes. We send you back half-naked and you might end up a little_ too_ popular, you know what I mean?" The agents laughed. "Some of those guys in lockup get kind of desperate. Me, I don't go in for rats. But I do appreciate a woman who doesn't talk and talk. How about you, Fred?"

"I know exactly what you mean."

"The guys in the pen might appreciate you on a whole different level, rat. Or, wait –" Sitting Agent sat back, mock-surprised. "Was that the plan all along? You like it when they appreciate you, rat? Is that how you pay for your dope?"

Blood oozed from the cuts on his head and his arms twisted awkwardly behind him. But Gray's face was relaxed, pure calm disdain. Until that point. His eyes finally left the face of the agent in front of him and fixed on the mirror, a little to the right of where Ziva stood. The look in them turned Gibbs cold.

Everyone has a breaking point.


	35. Unholy Crusaders

**Chapter 35: Unholy Crusaders**

_Everyone has a breaking point._

And it actually looked like they were closing in on Gray's.

"If that's how you pay for your dope we might just be able to help you out, rat. Open you up! That's the best way to use a Taser, did you know that? Sure there isn't anything you'd like to tell us first, though? Might take you awhile, you know, afterward. To be able to say anything."

"Gibbs," Ziva hissed.

Gibbs rubbed a hand over his mouth. His agents didn't handle intake at NCIS. Then again, he was pretty sure this wasn't standard intake or interrogation practice for FBI agents, either.

"They could be bluffing," he said. Except he didn't really get a bluffing vibe from the men on the other side of the glass. "But cavity searches are common when suspects are receiving visitors or moving in and out of general population, Ziva. A Taser can be used if he resists."

"On a minor," she said flatly, and reached to the small of her back to pull her weapon, movement sharp with resolve. "Not on him. I am ending this."

She'd gotten half a step toward the door before he grabbed her arm. "You'll both get worse than a search if you _kidnap_ a suspect, Ziva."

But Gibbs couldn't just watch it happen, either. It wasn't a real search – the agents were just trying to push a kid into breaking his silence. There was no telling how far they would go, but Gibbs suspected it would have to be damn far before this particular kid would stoop to telling them anything.

He flipped open his phone with his free hand and punched up the recent history, finally hitting the button for Kort.

"Nothing to say?" The sitting agent reached into a pocket and pulled on gloves, snapping the latex dramatically around his wrists. "Alright then. If that's what you want, rat. Put him over the table, Fred."

Gray went down hard onto the table. Kort picked up on the first ring.

"Where the hell are you?" Gibbs growled.

"An agent who can get him out is on her way. And you?" Kort was in a car, voice almost swallowed by honking noises and squealing tires.

"North Wing, Sublevel Two, Room Six. Watching the beginning of a cavity search, Kort. Not a very nice one."

Standing Agent pressed the side of Gray's face into the table, fingers digging into his cheek.

"Open wide, rat. I told you this would be good practice, didn't I?" The second agent gripped the top of Gray's head by the hair and pulled. His slender neck stretched out in a bow, jaw opened wide under the force of two men prying it apart. Two gloved fingers slipped into his mouth, moving back and forth over gums and teeth. "Now, this is the part where you swallow." Gray's body heaved as he gagged. "Good rat, just keep swallowing."

Ziva's arm jerked hard in Gibbs', dragging them both toward the door. She was moments away from attacking him, Gibbs could tell.

"Fuck!" Kort hissed. "That cannot happen Gibbs, do you understand me? Get in there and protect him like he said you would!"

Gibbs shut the phone and spun Ziva to face him. "Put your weapon away or you're not coming in with me."

She looked at him, eyes wild before she registered what he'd said, and shoved her gun back into the clip at her back. He got in her face and spoke fast. "I don't have enough pull to protect you if you pull a gun on another agent, Ziva, you got that? You're no good to me if you're locked up or suspended."

Or stripped of citizenship and deported. He'd tell her to wait in the hall if he thought there was a chance in hell she actually would. "If anyone needs to draw a weapon it's going to be me. We clear?"

She nodded frantically, not even looking at him. The first agent held Gray's shoulders to the table. The second was pulling down his pants.

Gibbs was turning to move out of the room when everything went to hell. Gray began to struggle, kicking and bucking up off the table. It was what the agents were waiting for. Gibbs slammed out of the viewing room at a run as one of them dove for the Taser. _Fred_ looked up when the interrogation room door was thrown open, locking eyes with Gibbs, shoving the device into the small of Gray's back. Pulling the trigger.

And Gibbs had his Sig pressed to the man's temple. "Back away."

"Gibbs!" The agent jerked away from the steel pressed into his skin, the Taser in his hand falling to the floor. "What the fuck!"

Gray's shoulders twisted out of the other agent's hold, his body sliding from the table and onto the floor. He scooted quickly out from under the mens' feet, back against the far wall.

Gibbs gestured with his gun toward the opposite wall and pulled his phone yet again from his pocket. "Get up against the wall."

The agent on the other side of the table leaned forward belligerently. "What do you think – "

"I will put a bullet in you. Do you understand me?" Gibbs was calm, but his hard tone had the ring of truth to it. His reputation as a loose cannon probably helped him there. The two agents backed against the wall.

Gibbs tossed his phone to Ziva without taking his eyes off them.

"Call Fornell."

The men in front of him relaxed slightly at the familiar name of the section chief, confident he would be on their side. Or at the very least, that Gibbs wouldn't call the man down here just to watch their executions. Ziva handed the cell back to him a moment later and he pressed it against his ear. Fornell answered as the fourth ring died away.

"Gibbs. Let me guess. You've found my missing agents."

"No. But you're going to have two more wounded if you don't get down here."

There was a slamming noise in the background. The man was already moving. "Suspect has a weapon? Where are you?"

"Sublevel two, interrogation room six, and the only weapon in play is mine." Gibbs paused. "But that doesn't mean anything good for your agents, Tobias."

Fornell took a relieved breath and slowed to a jog. It was Gibbs who was off the handle, not a lunatic suspect.

On the other hand he'd known Gibbs for a lot of years, and in all that time he'd learned one thing for sure. The man wasn't prone to exaggeration. "Give me ten minutes," he snapped. He'd need to fly to get from his office in the South Wing to the pens in the North in ten minutes.

"Fornell's on his way down," Gibbs said. He holstered his gun and gestured toward the door. "You two wait for him out in the hall."

Their mouths opened, faces already red.

"Go!" Gibbs roared.

They went.

Bullies, he thought. He'd been tangling with them since the third grade, but they rarely gave him a good fight anymore. Gibbs turned around to find Gray standing again, leaning against the wall.

Gibbs stepped forward, concerned about the scraped up mess on the side of Gray's. "You –" As Gibbs' hand went up Gray's shoulder ducked low and shot forward, driving into Gibbs' abdomen, sending him back. It wouldn't have been more than a hard bump if the kid hadn't also swept a heel into the back of Gibbs' knee. His bad knee.

Gibbs smothered the instinct to launch forward and subdue, managed to keep his feet under him and stagger back into the table instead. Gray retreated into the corner and stood there, twitching, panting for breath. Watching them warily.

From the disoriented look on his face Gibbs wasn't entirely sure that the kid even recognized them. And so far, in this room, Gibbs had been all menace.

"Okay." Voice like he'd use on a spooked horse. He raised his arms slowly, palms open to show no threat, and backed away. "Ziva."

She slipped out of the loose jacket she was wearing and stepped forward, putting her body between Gray and Gibbs, holding the coat in front of her. "I would like to release your arms."

Gray focused on her and she waited patiently. Finally he nodded and she stepped forward, draping the jacket across his front, reaching down with one hand to the knife at her calf. "Lean forward a little, so that I can reach the ties," she murmured.

Gibbs watched in case the kid freaked again and attacked her. But Gray stayed calm as Ziva sawed through the cords around his wrists and slipped the tangled t-shirt down his arms. She handed it back to him and he tugged it over his head. Finally she stepped back and he pulled up his pants, trembling as he worked the zipper.

He looked more himself when his arms were free and he was dressed, some of the strain relaxing out of his face.

"Are you alright, Gray? Are you injured," Ziva whispered. He shook his head.

She looked him over, then turned back to Gibbs.

"We'll wait here for Kort," he decided.

Ziva turned again to the boy. "Sit with me," she said, and put her own back against the wall to slide to the floor, crossing her legs Indian style in front of her. Gray looked at her for a moment, still shaking minutely, and slid abruptly down next to her, drawing his knees up to his chest.

Gibbs watched from the other side of the room as she put out a hand, one the kid didn't even seem to notice. Finally she reached over and simply took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. Gibbs held his breath, but Gray just glanced down at their joined hands and back up again, fixing his eyes over Gibbs' shoulders, on the open door.

Gibbs moved to stand in it.

The two ejected FBI agents huddled at the end of the hall, turning to glare at him when he appeared in the door. One of them was already muttering into his phone.

Gibbs looked back at them nonchalantly as he pulled his own phone from his pocket. He called Vance first, thankful when it went to voicemail and he could just leave a message. A head's up.

Then he called Dinozzo. It didn't come as any surprise that his senior agent was no longer napping in Fornell's office, or any other office for that matter. Dinozzo did keep himself busy.

**x**

A woman in a dark, crisp suit reached them a few minutes before Fornell did. She spared the two FBI agents a glance before stepping past them and stopping in the doorway, giving Gibbs a once over.

"Agent Gibbs." He raised an eyebrow. He'd never seen this woman before. She was striking, black hair, pale skin and very cool blue eyes. She looked past him into the room, but couldn't have seen anything except the walls over his shoulders. "I believe you have one of my charges in your custody."

He folded his arms over his chest. "That so? Who would that be?"

"Alan Grayson." She smiled sweetly, at odds with those icy eyes. "A minor. My colleague assured me you would know where he is."

"Your colleague. And who are you?"

She reached into an inner pocket of the suit and pulled out a badge. "Agent Trent, ICE."

"Agent Trent, huh?"

He eyed the badge. Courtney Trent, of ICE. It was a real badge alright, and that was her picture. Cute.

Gibbs spoke over his shoulder. "Someone here to see you, says her name is Courtney Trent." Gibbs frowned a little at whoever this woman was. "That okay?"

"Yeah," Gray said hoarsely.

Kort's lady lackey glared at Gibbs as she stepped past him.

"Good to go, Grayson?"

"Yeah."

The kid's favorite word, only slightly more emphatic this time.

"Alright, let's go. Stay behind me, Gray. Agent Gibbs, if you could bring up the rear."

She was nice enough, but professional. There was no indication that she'd even met the kid before. Not one of Gray's personal contacts, then. Not like Kort.

Gibbs stepped back from the doorway so that she could sweep out of the room, Gray moving so closely behind he looked like a shadow. Gibbs and Ziva followed.

Fred and the other one stepped into their path as they walked down the hall. A few minutes without Gibbs' gun on them and they'd recollected their backbones.

The talkative one got into Lady Trent's face. "Who the hell are you?"

"Agent Trent, Immigration and Customs Enforcement. This boy is in my charge." She pulled a piece of paper from her suit. "Transfer of custody papers. ICE's jurisdiction precedes yours in this case. Unless you have credible reason to believe he has committed a crime in your jurisdiction, or that he has any knowledge of a crime in the same?"

The agent frowned, unsure of himself in the face of official looking paperwork. Gibbs rolled his eyes despite the confusion in their favor. It was amateur hour down here.

And then Fornell appeared, face like a storm. "What is going on?" It was good, Gibbs reflected, somewhere between a growl and a yell.

Ziva opened her mouth, ready to let loose. Gibbs shot out a hand and jerked her close. "No," he whispered.

Kort's lackey held up the sheaf of papers. "This boy is now in ICE's custody. You can apply for his return to FBI holding," Gibbs _heard_ the sweet smile, "if you can manage to come up with a reason to hold him at all."

Fornell stepped forward and took the paperwork, looking it over. "Alan Grayson." He handed it back and glanced from the woman to his agents. "Does this kid have anything relevant?"

The one who wasn't Fred muttered something along the lines of, "Don't know. Wouldn't talk."

"Was he anywhere near the scene?" Fornell pressed. "Anyone place him there? Or with the gang?"

Fred shrugged.

Fornell, unimpressed, shook his head and stepped aside, addressing Lady Trent again. "Fine, take him."

The woman and Gray stepped swiftly by the men in the narrow hallway. Gibbs and Ziva moved to follow.

"Gibbs!"

He turned back to see Fornell standing next to the two seething agents, his arms held out in a _What the hell?_

Gibbs glanced pointedly at the junior agents. "I'll call you, Tobias. Good luck finding your people."

They practically jogged to the exit.

Kort was waiting for them in the front parking lot, leaning on an idling black Suburban. Gray crawled into the back without even looking at him. The ICE agent – or whoever she was – disappeared into the front seat.

Gibbs stopped in front of Kort and nodded to the dark tinted window. "Someone should look at his head. And his back."

Kort nodded, already moving away.

Gibbs licked his lips, feeling unsure and not liking it.

_They say you know people, you know things . . ._

But he was a cop now, before all, and that loyalty held true. He had to try.

"I'd like to ask him something."

Kort paused to look him over, then turned, reluctant, and rapped on the front passenger window. It slid down and the CIA agent ducked his head into it slightly, speaking to the back of the car, words too quiet to make out.

The back door popped open again, shoved just wide enough for Gray to see him.

Gibbs took a breath and settled the kid with an open, steady gaze. The one for friendly witnesses. "You know anything that might help the missing agents? Help find them?"

Gray stared at him for a long moment. For a second Gibbs thought he would get the same silent treatment as Dargas' crew.

"You think I give a fuck about those people?"

Gibbs actually winced. "Most of them aren't like those two," he waved back toward the building. "You know that."

Gray was silent, hard and cold again already, the boy who let Ziva hold his hand long gone.

"No," Gibbs said. Calm. "I don't think you care. But if you have any information I'm asking you to tell me. They have families."

Gray grabbed the handle of the door and leaned back, swinging it shut.

"Hey," Gibbs stuck out a hand to keep it open. "Your friend. The one who was sick back at the lot."

Gray stilled.

"He's at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda under the name Alan McGee. He won't be able to stay there long before the paperwork catches up to him." Gibbs released the door and stepped back. "You want help getting him into a program," he said gruffly, "give me a call."

"Hey Boss!" Tony's voice sailed over them as he trotted up behind Gibbs.

The portion of Kort's face not covered by his sunglasses grimaced, and he looked away.

"Actually that's old intel. Alan McGee's been transferred to Phoenix House, over in Arlington." Dinozzo stopped just over Gibbs' shoulder and paused to catch his breath. "It's a voluntary facility, you know, so he can leave whenever he wants. Or he can stay, till he's feeling better. Ninety days is sort of the minimum package." Tony's eyes slid over Gray's face. "Hey Smokey. How you doing?"

Gray kept his grip tight on the door. But he didn't move to pull it closed, not right away.

"If I did care I'd look in the river," he said finally, eyes settling on Gibbs. "Same place that crew usually dumps."

Gibbs frowned. If the gang had "usual" dumping grounds the FBI had definitely searched them by now -

"Course they haven't gone after anyone you'd give a rat's ass about so those bodies probably aren't on your books. Seventh District cops pulled three junkies out last spring. They'll know where to look."

"You think they're dead?" Gibbs pressed.

Gray's gaze left his, squinting instead out the car's front window. "I don't know the first goddamn thing about your precious agents," he said faintly. "But that gang hasn't left anyone who crossed them alive before. Don't know why they'd start now."

He tugged firmly on the handle then and the door of the SUV swung shut. Kort left his post next to them, striding around to climb in the back on the other side, the car pulling away instantly.

Gibbs glanced at Dinozzo. "That was fast."

Tony shrugged. "I got to know some of the ladies at Phoenix when I worked Vice. It's a good program, as far as they go. If he sticks with it."

It was an excellent program, one of the best on the East Coast. The waiting period for that place was months, if not years, and patching together enough financing for a rootless kid to be accepted there in just a few hours would take some serious red tape finesse. More finesse than Gibbs had, anyway.

"Good job, Dinozzo," he said. But this wasn't just the job, so . . . "Thanks."

Tony grinned.

Gibbs called Fornell and the FBI called the Seventh District, then put divers in the water. They found both agents a few hours later, bodies pulled from the bottom of the river.

**x**

Gibbs figured he would be persona non grata at the FBI building for the next . . . well, two or three years, probably. Might last right through to retirement.

So it was definitely out as a meeting place for him and Fornell the next night. Tobias proposed Gibbs' house. Then, shocked that the suggestion was shot down, his own.

Gibbs said NCIS instead, and even offered to pick up the burgers.

The office was quiet – it was Sunday, Gibbs' team finally home for a day. The overhead lights were out for the night and the lighting was dim, most of it from the glow of Gibbs' desk lamp. Fornell draped his suit jacket over Tony's empty chair and pulled it toward Gibbs' desk. "Hey, mood lighting. Romantic. Why aren't we at your house?"

Gibbs didn't say anything, busying himself with sweeping the stuff on his desk to the side, out of the way of the food.

"Let me guess. Another termite infestation."

"Something like that."

"And why aren't we at my house? Your termites catchy?"

"Could be."

"Uh huh." Tobias reached into the paper sack and pulled out a plastic tray with a burger in it, prying off the cover and taking a sniff. Alas, no onions. He passed it to Gibbs. "Mind telling me what you're into, Jethro?"

Gibbs shook his head and snagged the enormous foil packet of fries, setting it on a napkin between them. "Nothing special."

"Dargas is screaming for your head. I think he wants to put it on a pike in the lobby."

Gibbs shrugged, grinning wryly at his french fries. Pissing off Dargas was about the only thing that went right yesterday, as far as he was concerned. "He's welcome to try," he muttered. "Man's out of control. And those agents should be brought up on charges."

Wasn't the first time a few hotheaded Feds used the threat of rape to scare a minor. He knew that. But it sure as hell was the first time Gibbs had watched it happen - and the last. If they were on his team those agents would be in lockup right now. If they were lucky.

"Mmmph," Tobias said.

It was a tricky situation. Dargas was generally savvy enough to keep his people out of anything that was clearly illegal. Or at least, anything so obviously illegal it was likely to get them busted.

Fornell picked up a fry and bit off its head. "He'll be eligible for retirement in two years. They'll push him out then and break up his squad."

Gibbs shook his head.

"Yeah," Fornell said. "Trouble is he gets results, even if he does create an unholy mess along the way. Something like the way you operate actually."

Gibbs glared at him and snatched up the baggie of ketchup packets. He was no Dargas.

"Well," Fornell continued, "I appreciate you keeping the incident quiet. The agents you_ hijacked _a suspect from are too damn embarrassed to raise much of a stink about it. You're lucky they're green. I'm not sure how much Dargas even knows." Tobias reached back into the paper sack, hoping for some stray ketchups. "Hard to tell, since his rage for you was already operating at full capacity."

The fact that it was a tip from Gibbs that cracked the search hadn't helped in the least.

"They're lucky all I did was hold a gun on them. And they're gonna wish they'd been reassigned to Juneau if Ziva ever sees either one of them again."

Fornell raised an eyebrow at the dark tone. Nothing those two agents had done was technically illegal, as far as he knew. But there'd been no camera on that interview room and he was aware he didn't have the whole story. "File a complaint and we could take disciplinary measures."

Gibbs shook his head.

Tobias eyed him over his burger. He'd been doing this long enough to sniff out a cover up. The weird thing here was that Gibbs' team was doing the covering up and not Dargas'. "Of course to lodge a complaint you'd have to give up the name of that kid," he said leadingly.

Gibbs laughed as if he'd said something hilarious. "I don't know his name."

Fornell frowned. Gibbs seemed sincere about that. But the anger at the FBI agents was personal . . . he shrugged. "Well, not much we can do about it through official channels, then."

When Tobias glanced up Gibbs was sitting back in his chair. Looking at him in that _tell me your secrets I know you're holding out on me_ way.

Fornell sighed and finally threw him a bone. "I've got some feelers out to Internal Affairs." Which Gibbs probably already guessed. "If there'd been a stink about those two clowns the investigation into Dargas could've busted wide open. He'd of dodged it, put it all on his probies, probably gotten leeway 'cause one of his teams just lost three agents . . ." Fornell paused. "Don't ever tell anyone I told you that."

He frowned at Gibbs' little grin. So he'd known all along. Or suspected some of it at least. "Smug bastard. Now tell me why our trafficking squad even knows who you are."

Gibbs picked up his burger and took a big bite, chewing it slowly as he shrugged. "Cartel in Colombia."

Tobias almost choked on a fry.

After last spring's murder charge and then Gibbs' sudden, totally unexplained reappearance from the middle of a Reynosa kidnapping spree . . . well, he'd expected to hear something, at least, about a cartel in Mexico. How many international criminal organizations had the man managed to piss off?

No wonder they weren't eating at home.

"You don't say?" Fornell prompted. Honestly. It was like pulling teeth from a crocodile. A grumpy crocodile.

Gibbs shrugged again. "Got unfinished business."

Fornell took a long pull from his soda, studying the man across from him. "And that kid has something to do with it?"

Gibbs concentrated on his fries, picking several up and looking at them pensively for a moment. "You ever tangle with drug runners in your section? Anything international?"

Tobias narrowed his eyes at the dodge. "Not often. Interstate trafficking gets shunted to Dargas and his goon squad pretty fast. Anything national or international goes to their senior section chief. And the A-team agents," he muttered.

Gibbs nodded.

Tobias crunched through a sour pickle, studying the man across from him.

Well, what the hell. "I heard the head of the Reynosa cartel disappeared."

Gibbs investigated the little styrofoam pickle bucket for himself. "Yeah. Heard that too."

"Private plane up and vanished, apparently. Over the Caribbean. Paloma Reynosa and three of her top men on board."

Gibbs sipped his coffee silently.

How the man could wash down a perfectly good burger with coffee was beyond him.

"Just like that," Tobias said. "Poof." More sipping was the only response. That coffee must be empty by now. "It's almost like - well," he scratched his stubble thoughtfully. "Dark magic would be the - "

"We think it was a rival gang," Gibbs cut in drily.

Fornell grinned. "Not dark magic?"

Gibbs didn't deign to respond. Fair enough. Disappearing a whole planeload of people wasn't really Gibbs' style anyway.

"You know, that jet _was_ flying awfully close to the Bermuda Triangle. Jinxed airspace," Tobias said seriously.

"Right."

"Not too far from the coast of Colombia, come to think of it."

Gibbs looked at him, then shook his head. Playing this one damn close to the vest, then.

They were quiet for a bit, munching their food steadily. But that was alright. Jethro would bring him in on it when and if Tobias could ever lend a hand with the . . . fumigating.

"Hey," Fornell said. "Did I tell you I saw Diane stalking through the Homeland Security lobby last week? Had on a little black dress, red heels, whole nine yards."

They looked at each other and grinned. A little black dress and red heels meant big game.

"I wonder who she's got her claws into over there. I thought about distributing some leaflets, you know, a warning, but then I thought – this is Homeland Security. What if whoever it is deserves her? Could be a match made in heaven!"

Gibbs chuckled, binning his empty burger wrapper, and proposed his least-favorite DHS pencil-pusher.

* * *

><p><em>an: If I had to pick a favorite NCIS episode, Internal Affairs would be right up there at the top of my short list. So I had to give it a shout-out. Thanks for your reader shout-outs!_

_- From NCIS Season 5 Episode 14: _Internal Affairs -

_Abby: You think there's a murderer here, like, right underneath Gibbs' nose. That whatever took place took place without Gibbs knowing._

_Fornell: And that could never happen._

_Abby: I'm going to share a secret with you. It's a theory that I've been working on. Off the books._

_(She pauses to scope out the room for surveillance.)_

_Okay. The man . . . is magic. Like, dark magic. He has eyes and ears _everywhere_. He appears like a - a mist. Whenever I get a clue he just, _materializes_._

_Fornell: Maybe he bugged your lab._

_Abby: No. I checked._

_Fornell: What's that like? It sounds aggravating._

_Abby: No._

_Fornell: Does he ever get angry?_

_Abby: Never. He only uses his powers for good._

_Fornell: Well. Sounds like you're a fan._


	36. Back to School

**Chapter 36: Back to School**

Ziva was avoiding him.

He'd cornered her a couple times, but she kept slipping away. It wasn't a smart strategy on her part since it only made him more pissed. Still, Gibbs let her get away with if for a few days, until the elevator doors slid open in front of him and she was already in it. Trapped.

Unfortunately she wasn't alone in there. He held the doors and stared at the two guys – Gibbs was pretty sure they were from Cyber Crimes – standing between him and his agent.

But the cyber guys didn't seem to notice that the elevator had even stopped. Somehow didn't realize they were on the business end of a Gibbs glare. They were too wrapped up in their conversation, jabbering fiercely about . . . well, Gibbs had no idea what they were jabbering about.

"Hey," he said, breaking up the debate. They looked up at him as one, blinking like moles who'd accidently pushed up into sunlight. "Get out."

They scurried away without even bothering to check which floor they were on.

Ziva, aware he'd been standing there from the moment the doors opened, didn't look at him when he appeared. Not when he kicked out the interlopers. Not when he stepped into the silent car and stopped it between floors.

He leaned against the side wall and watched as she stood staring at the doors. As if he wasn't there.

"There ever going to be an end to it, Ziva?"

She didn't look at him, but she did speak. "An end to what?"

"These secrets."

Of course she said nothing. He'd been matter-of-fact, and when her defenses were up Ziva almost never responded to coaxing or reason, not unless she was already broken. Cruelty, brute force, suspicion – 'tough love,' putting a really optimistic spin on it – those were the tactics her first mentors trained her to recognize.

"You know," he said thoughtfully. "We've got a rack of Tasers down in the equipment garage. Would that help _you_ open up?"

She stiffened, instantly angry. "No."

Gibbs kept control, but his own anger was there. Lurking beneath the words and easy to hear. "Yeah, didn't think so. But then I noticed that the kid didn't say a word either. You were right about that, didn't make a sound. Not when they broke him. Not even when they stunned him. You know," he pressed forward again, his tone mock thoughtful. "That's pretty surprising. I was surprised."

An oppressive quiet settled over them.

"But you weren't. Remarkable prediction on your part," he observed.

Ziva breathed deeply, evenly. Silently.

Gibbs pushed off from the wall behind him and came in close to whisper in her ear. "Do you think I _need_ a Taser, Agent David?"

Her eyes jerked toward him finally, meeting his gaze with another wave of anger. Losing another layer of control. "I have been trained to withstand torture, Gibbs. I doubt you could _make_ me say anything. Not without committing several felonies."

"Don't tempt me," he muttered. But he backed off.

She was talking – somewhat. And he was way too aware that she hadn't simply been trained to withstand torture. She had withstood it. Actual torture, not that she ever mentioned it. He doubted she ever would, not to him, anyway. Staying strong in front of authority was too engrained.

Ziva sighed and deflated a little, letting her eyes wander away from his. She understood his anger. She hated being behind these walls just as much as he seemed to hate that they were there. She threw them up on instinct, but she didn't always know how to take them down. Ziva breathed deeply once more, resolving to give him as much as she could. All that she could bear for him to know.

"Anyone with the training that I have received would revert back to it if faced with a coercive interrogation," she said smoothly. Pointedly.

Gibbs eyes widened subtly. "You think he's – what, gotten some kind of training? In _coercion_?" Coercion was code, of course. For torture.

"No," Ziva said, and hesitated. "I know he has."

Gibbs stared, and finally raised his hands, a gesture of impatience verging on explosion. "Yeah, and? You want to tell me how you know that?"

She glanced at him and Gibbs frowned. It looked like she was torn over revealing a confidence. He reigned himself in, trying to get a handle on an odd relationship he still didn't understand. The one between Gray and his agent.

"Look. He needs protection, Ziva. I can't do that if I don't know what I'm dealing with."

She was beginning to bend, Gibbs could smell it. He narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, crowding close. Full-blown intimidation always worked like a blast of electricity here, surging through the confined metallic space of the elevator car, charging the air with expectation.

"You knew he would flash back to something when they were questioning him. You thought a couple of _twerps_ from the FBI were going to break him. Break that –" His hands curled into fists at his sides. He could identify what Gray was, even if he didn't like it. "_Machine_. And you were _right_." Gibbs' voice carried his lingering disbelief. "The kid's cracks are invisible but you knew they were there. You knew where. Your guard was up before he even stepped into that room - "

She blew out a breath and shook her head. "You think I have some piece of intelligence I have not shared! I do not _know_ anything, Gibbs. It is all guesswork!"

"Tell me."

His voice settled over her like a block of concrete, and Ziva held up a hand in surrender.

"Alright," she said finally, avoiding his eyes.

Gibbs backed off, slightly. And waited through a long silence.

"You remember when he had the fever," she said finally. "Before we were pulled out of the jungle?"

He nodded sharply.

"He was unusually talkative. You said later that he gave nothing away, that he was drawing us out. That he – you thought that he was looking for information on me in particular, because he was not given my file . . . "

Ziva paused, but Gibbs remained silent. Of course he remembered.

"You were right about that," she said. "I told him that I was once Mossad, you recall?" She didn't wait for a confirmation. "He asked me what that was, as if he did not know . . . But he knew . . . " she trailed off. "He must have known."

Gibbs shook his head a little. Mossad wasn't all that well known outside of intelligence communities and law enforcement. "How do you figure that?"

She hesitated yet again. "I don't think he wants us to know this," she said lowly.

He waited her out, letting her come to terms with betraying a secret she wasn't even supposed to have. Normally he would press at this point. But there was something touchy between Ziva and the kid, like an injury that had just healed and was still tender. Not something to mess with.

Gibbs might be a bastard, but he wasn't brutal with his own people. He could be patient when the opposite would do more harm than good.

Ziva put a hand up to rub her forehead and began to pace back and forth in the tight space. He stepped back to lean against the far wall and followed her with his eyes.

"In the infirmary, when they first took him in, he was hallucinating." She looked at him quickly and Gibbs nodded. He remembered. How could he forget? The kid had been screaming, the cries echoing in that tin can of a base.

"He began to struggle and the men held him down. It was only a few hours after I told him I was once with Mossad. I do not know – that may be – " she cleared her throat. "That may have played a part in bringing certain memories forward."

Ziva paused. The others did not understand the broken Spanish. But she had. "The things he said – cried – when he was not conscious . . . "

She stopped her pacing and stood in front of a wall, staring at it in the low, buzzing solitude of the elevator. She drifted in the solitude of her thoughts, a world away from the proud man standing next to her. How could she explain? There were no words, and it loomed too large. To speak of it would invite it to subsume her. To touch that abyss would be to drown in it, even in her own mind. Even after all this time.

"They were familiar, Gibbs," she said finally, simply. "I believe he was trained to resist interrogation by a Mossad specialist. Or perhaps he was tortured by one," she said lowly. "The two are not so different."

She glanced at him. "That is all I know. The rest I deduced," she shrugged awkwardly, too aware of his eyes on her. "I assumed from the violence of the hallucination we witnessed that he would . . . that a difficult interrogation would hold unpleasant associations," she finally concluded, stiff and miserable."I have seen something similar before . . . in young detainees . . . trained in this way."

Gibbs digested that, studying her. There were plenty of ex-Israeli intelligence officers operating in South America, same as there were retired US specialists working there. Some of those operatives were legitimate, and played by the rules. But that kind of work also attracted men like Dean, who had been kicked out of their nation's service. Mercenaries willing to sell any violence asked of them to the highest bidder. No honor. No limits.

She was saying Gray had been tortured by a specialist like that - or perhaps trained to torture. Either one turned his stomach.

And the kid would most definitely not want them to know. That kind of experience would create windows, vulnerabilities. If you knew it was there. Ways to break him, just like they'd seen, even if the 'training' held true and he never spoke a word.

"You ever work there? In South America?"

"No," she said, with unmistakable relief.

But she had worked with young detainees, Gibbs noted. Any rough spots in that particular history would have been of interest to Kort . . .

"This have to do with whatever Kort has on you?"

She faced him finally, running her eyes over him sharply. "No . . . not directly."

Gibbs shook his head.

His team was the best, and he'd go to the ends of the earth for any one of them, just as they had for him. But being the best brought its own baggage. The crucibles that had tempered their skills, that made them so good in the first place, had also left their scars. And some days the baggage that they dragged around behind them and simply refused to let go absolutely drove him up the wall. "Well. I guess that answers the original question."

"What?"

"'Not directly,'" he mimicked. Exasperated. "Secrets, Ziva. There's no end in sight is there?"

She huffed. She had given him plenty, all the information he really needed, and she knew it. "Ah. And should I take you as my role model in that, Gibbs? By all means, go ahead. You first."

Gibbs let himself get pissed now, let his voice rise. He'd gotten as far as he was going to get with her today anyway. "I'm not talking about your personal life, Ziva. Whatever Kort has on you is about the job. Either you trust us with it – you trust _me_ with it – or you don't."

The look she gave him wasn't shamed or secretive. It was confident, and colder than anything he had seen from her in a very long time. "You do not want to know all of my secrets. And Trent Kort knows nothing about me that will affect the team."

Gibbs could actually feel his blood rise, feel his neck get hot with frustration. "If Kort knows then you've got a leak. Anyone could know. Whatever it is it'll come out, Ziva." And he knew better than anyone how fucked up that could get. "Tell me about the situation and I can help you. We can prepare for it."

"There is no situation," she said firmly. "And there is no leak."

He ground his teeth. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ziva – he did. The problem always came back to her inability to trust him. To trust anyone.

To be fair, these days it was more reluctance than an inability. She'd come a long way. But Gibbs didn't really care about fair. He just wanted her to come a little further. "Alright. Mind telling me how you're so sure there's no leak?"

She took a deep breath and looked at him carefully, then away again. Finally she straightened her back, and Gibbs felt a tingle go down his spine. He'd seen that posture before. He wasn't going to like this.

"Kort knows about it because he was there," she said.

Gibbs stared at her for a good long time, then turned away and flipped the switch, looking at the doors as the car began to move. He sure as hell didn't want to look at her.

"You knew him before you came to NCIS."

"I had met him. Yes."

Gibbs' voice went quiet. "I don't remember that coming up when he was working with the Frog. When we were trying to figure out who the hell he was. Or when he was putting a CIA op over your partner's life." That last one was the most quiet.

"I did not know his real name, Gibbs. I did not know he was CIA – I knew nothing about him! When I recognized him with Rene Benoit I assumed that he really was working as an arms dealer. My prior . . . interaction with him – it was many years old, and a cover anyway – it was meaningless." She stared at the steel door in front of her, struggling stupidly to keep her voice steady. Cursing the fact that Gibbs' opinion meant so much to her, even as she chased it. "If I had relevant information at the time I would have told you. I swear to you."

Gibbs relaxed minutely. But when the doors opened he put out a hand to keep her in the car.

"I never dug into your time at Mossad, Ziva. That's not how I operate. I trust my people to tell me what I need to know. I show you what it means to be a team, to work together."

Well, most of the time. He was doing his best with that.

She said nothing and he stepped in front of her, leaning in close again, searching her face. "You've been working for me now for five years, but I don't know if you've ever really been on the team. And I've got to wonder if in all that time you've learned a damn thing."

She met his stare and he watched as a flash of hurt was chased out by the flat, expressionless veneer of the old Mossad operative. _Damn_. He'd - that was too hard -

"I have learned many things from you, Gibbs," she said quietly. Voice smooth and steady now, slick as glass. "So many that after only five years I am a different person. That is all you need to know. I believe that is all you would understand."

She stepped around him, heading toward her desk. Leaving Gibbs to stare into an empty elevator.

**x**

The next break came just a few weeks later, 0300 on a Friday. Gibbs and Tony were sitting in a dark car, windows slightly frosty in the December night, watching residents and their chosen parade of vices walk in and out of a fancy condo building. One of AK's lackeys lived there and the lackey's lackeys were visiting, so Gibbs and Tony were watching.

McGee and Ziva were on a stakeout across town, at yet another lackey's 24-hour convenience store. When Gibbs' phone rang it was right on the hour mark. He didn't bother to check the Caller ID – on a stakeout McGee always called to check in exactly on the hour.

"Yeah."

"Gibbs. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

There was a beep on the line then. Probably McGee, coming through to call waiting.

"Hold on." Gibbs clicked over. "Report, McGee."

"Nothing's happening, Boss. Our guy stayed inside, no suspicious pick-ups or deliveries."

Gibbs grunted. "Call in again at 0400, then you can pack it up for the night."

He switched back to the other line. Trying to get himself killed?

"Just trying to live life to the fullest, Kort."

"You have a strange way of trying to live life at all. You do realize that DC distributors of Calera products don't need a warrant to hunt down you and everyone you know? They'll sniff you out if you keep arresting their little minions. He didn't drag you out of the jungle so that you could get yourself killed in your own backyard."

Yep, Gibbs got that now. As far as he could tell they'd dragged him back to DC so that he could keep the kid's ass out of trouble. "What do you want?" Gibbs normally wouldn't deign to ask, but . . . "He in trouble?"

"I'm surprised you haven't tracked him down and asked him that yourself."

Gibbs felt a twinge in his gut. He'd been feeling it ever since he went to bail the kid out and didn't follow him home. He'd decided to go with what Gray said he wanted. Let him keep the anonymity that he wore like armor.

But that meant relying on the kid's judgement. And wasn't that why kids usually had adults deciding things for them? Because their judgement sucked?

"He didn't seem to want me tracking him down," he said mildly. "Why, should I have?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Careful, Gibbs. You're dangerously close to earning some small measure of respect."

For the privacy, right. "I'll take that to mean he's fine."

"Yes. Gray's been in school, which is a good place to go if you want to learn the important things in life."

Gibbs sat up and glanced at Dinozzo, who was staring at the condo and listening hard. "Oh yeah? What kind of things?"

"You might have heard about a school shooting last week?"

"Yeah, there was something in the news. A nine-year-old."

No Navy connection, no drug connection. Gibbs hadn't paid it much attention.

"Yes. A boy was shot and killed on the playground after classes let out for the day. It was crowded but no one saw anything. All rather strange."

"And?"

"Go back to school, Gibbs." The line clicked off softly.

**x**

Ballou Elementary had metal detectors, rotating shifts of local LEOs assigned to it, and more students than the entire population of Gibbs' hometown.

Team Gibbs used their newfound popularity with Metro to grease their way into interviewing students. First stop was the principal, a petit dark-skinned woman with steel gray hair. Tony assumed she would be nice because they first saw her talking to a weepy third grader.

But when the kid turned away and her eyes fell on the agents all pretense of nice went out the window.

"Gentlemen." She nodded at Ziva. "And lady. I am Principal Kurtz. If you'll come with me."

She led them to a crowded office, neat but small, that smelled of old carpet and humid summers. Gibbs sat in one of the two available chairs, both covered in wooly orange fabric, and his agents stood behind him.

"So. You are here about Matthew's death."

"Yes, ma'am."

"We report at least a dozen incidents to the police every year. I have never had occasion to speak with military police, Officer – pardon me, is Officer your title?"

"I'm Agent Gibbs."

"Agent Gibbs. You do realize that my students are well under enlistment age."

Gibbs kept his face recruiter poker-straight. "Yes. We have reason to believe that the shooting here was related to an incident involving the murder of two Marines."

Tony reflected that "related" by six degrees of separation was still related.

Gibbs went on. "We understand that there were witnesses to Matthew's murder, but no useful information was brought to light?"

Principal Kurtz laced her hands in front of her and gave Gibbs a chilly smile. It was a smile that said she'd been on the receiving end of utter crap from generations of students. That his little brand of bullshit better step it up if he thought it was going to pass muster with her. "And you have the authority to interview my students without their guardians' permission or presence based on this 'related incident'?"

Damn. Tony shifted on his feet and exchanged an undetectable-to-outsiders wince with Ziva.

"No," Gibbs smiled. "Of course not."

Fact was, he'd been hoping to go ahead and do just that. The no-harm no-foul approach to interviews, provided no one's legal department got involved. Without parents or lawyers hovering around they could have pushed some kid or other into spilling his guts, Gibbs was sure.

Foiled, though. By the principal. Time for Plan B.

Gibbs should be pissed, but couldn't help laughing a little, inside. Way down deep inside. Sometimes he liked people who gave him hell. It was a hard thing to predict, but it looked like he was leaning toward liking Principal Kurtz. "We'd just like to introduce ourselves to any witnesses, explain who we are and what we're trying to do. Leave contact information in case anyone remembers something they would like to share with us."

Principal Kurtz's stare was as steely as her hair.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Unless you aren't interested in identifying Matthew's killer?"

"Do not presume, Agent Gibbs, to understand my interests. It is my duty to keep the children in this school as safe as I possibly can. Coming forward as a witness to this particular crime is not conducive to student safety."

Gibbs frowned. "We'll protect anyone who comes forward."

Kurtz smiled thinly. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Agent Gibbs."

You could tell she'd used that exact same tone to scold decades of wayward children for sticking wads of gum to the bottoms of their desks.

She rose to her feet. "There were fifty-six students and two monitors on the playground that day. I'd prefer that the students miss as little class time as possible. You can speak to them in groups of six or seven and then interview the monitors separately. I'll supervise the meetings and put a halt to them if I hear or see anything at all objectionable, is that clear?"

"Fifty-six witnesses?" Gibbs didn't yell, exactly. It was his indoor yelling voice. "And no one saw anything?"

Kurtz stood there looking at him, a petite pillar of iron, and raised a flinty eyebrow. "Of course they saw something, Agent Gibbs. They saw a child gunned down on his own school playground. They saw him bleed to death before their eyes. Now they go to class and see his empty desk. Tell me, are you here to protect them from that?"

Gibbs opened his mouth, but didn't get the chance to say anything.

"No. You are not. You are pursuing some kind of vengeance," she looked him up and down. "For your dead Marines, perhaps. Or for yourself. You are not here for Matthew. My students are young, but they are not stupid, Agent Gibbs. They have learned well who holds the power here, and how to protect themselves." She moved toward the office door. "You use that tone with them and I'll have you removed from this building."

"What about the adults," Gibbs growled. "The monitors."

Principle Kurtz paused. "They have children of their own. Ones they would like to see grow up."

And with that she walked out, leaving an investigative trail of destruction in her wake. Tony and McGee and Ziva sort of averted their eyes, studying the minutiae of the office until the boss recovered and managed to adjust himself from Plan A, which involved using 40+ collective years of experience to interrogate easily manipulated children, to Plan B, which consisted entirely of giving a vague sort of speech under the watchful eye of Frau Kurtz. A plan that would almost certainly be useless and therefore a total waste of Valuable Boss Time.

Gibbs decided that he and Ziva would talk to the kids while Tony and McGee spoke to the monitors.

It was singularly boring. Fidgety, defiant, closed-mouthed six to thirteen-year-olds listened as he explained about the two U.S. Marines who had been killed. He asked every group if they had family serving and wasn't surprised when two-thirds of the kids raised their hands every time. He explained that NCIS was the police force that protected people in the Navy and Marines, and that Matthew's shooting might have had something to do with the death of the Marines.

Ziva explained that anyone with information about what happened to Matthew could come to the Navy Yard to speak with an agent or call the number on the cards they were given, day or night. Of course she also mentioned that the Navy had very sophisticated equipment available to track down prank callers, and that the punishment for pranking Navy cops was walking the plank, into a shark tank.

It was, after all, her number on those cards.

She asked if there were any questions, every single group of kids had a boy or two who wanted to see her gun – and, it was implied, the rest of her attributes – and then they moved on to the next group.

Gibbs thanked Principal Kurtz sincerely, his respect for her devotion to her kids clear, but stalked out of the school more pissed than a kid-oriented afternoon had ever left him. If children were afraid for their lives there was no way that a speech about protecting sailors was going to convince them to come forward.

It was a wasted day, a fool's errand all at Kort's call, and that pissed him off even more.

Four days later Gibbs was in no better mood when McGee interrupted him during an interrogation.

Gibbs was in the middle of leaning on what felt like the eight-hundredth dope peddler of the week, a kid who clearly did not go to Principal Kurtz's school of life, since he seemed too essentially stupid to even grasp Gibbs' questions. As soon as the interrogation room door swung shut behind him he turned on McGee, growling with all the fury that a whole week of painfully stupid pushers could kindle.

"You have got to be kidding me, McGee."

Tim talked fast. "Boss, security just called up. There are two girls here to see you, one of them elementary school age. They wouldn't say what they want to talk to you about and only the oldest girl would give her name. It's - she said it's Cassandra Gray."


	37. Secrets

**Chapter 37: Secrets**

Cassandra Gray?

"Take that idiot back down to holding," Gibbs nodded toward interrogation as he walked swiftly away. "You had security send them up?"

"Yes, Boss!" McGee called after him.

They were standing by the windows near the bullpen. Two girls and one of the security guys from the lobby. Gibbs nodded at the guard, who nodded back and spun away to return to his post downstairs. And then it was just Gibbs and the girls. A tall one and a short one, both dressed in dark pants and white button-down shirts. School uniforms.

"I'm Agent Gibbs." He held out his hand. "And you are?"

"Cassie." The tall one touched his hand in a lightning-fast shake. "This is Amelia."

Cassie was tall and athletic, long dark hair tucked behind her ears, bright, dark eyes. She watched him carefully.

"Amelia." Gibbs stuck out his hand. The smaller girl considered him a few seconds before reaching out a hand and shaking his slowly, peering out at him from under a halo of brown curls.

Neither of the girls were among the kids they met at the school.

"Are you here about the shooting at Ballou Elementary?"

"Yes." Cassie answered for both of them.

"Okay. Let's go somewhere we can talk."

Gibbs led them up to a conference room. Amelia lagged behind a little, staring around the office in wonder even as Cassie took up her hand and pulled her along. Gibbs stopped at the door of one of the smaller meeting rooms and gestured them in.

Cassie approached, took one look into the room and backed abruptly away, guiding Amelia behind her. She stopped when she was about ten feet off and fixed cautious eyes on Gibbs.

Watching for any sudden movements, it looked like.

Gibbs held still and looked her over for signs of some recent attack. He didn't find any, beyond her behavior.

There was something older, though. He'd noticed damage to her right arm downstairs, but with the long-sleeved shirt it was hard to tell exactly what was there. The back of her right hand was discolored, scarring disappearing up under her sleeve and then reappearing where the collar of her shirt met the side of her neck. It continued up part of the right side of her face, barely visible as it faded into a smooth cheek.

She was what, fifteen? But that scarring was already old.

She didn't seem self-conscious about the hand, and Gibbs let his eyes rest on it for a moment. Some kind of burn. When his eyes drifted back up to her face she was looking right at him, more determination than fear in her gaze.

It was painfully obvious that Cassandra Gray wasn't about to go into a room with a man she'd just met, come hell or high water. Or even get within ten feet of him.

"Would you like me to call another agent?" he asked mildly.

"Where's Ziva?" the girl asked slowly.

"She's here. Would you like me to call her?"

Cassie nodded, retreating with Amelia to the edge of the balcony. She watched him steadily as he walked to one of the random internal phones bolted to the walls throughout the building. Amelia leaned against the steel railing and peered out over the bullpen, utterly fascinated by the hustle and bustle, shyness forgotten as curiosity took over.

Ziva was in Abby's lab. "Ziva, third floor conference room. Now."

Gibbs leaned against the wall by the phone while they waited, not particularly looking at the girls – allowing Cassie to observe him unobserved. Ziva made it up in under three minutes.

Gibbs nodded toward their visitors. "Ziva, this is Cassandra Gray, she goes by Cassie. And this is Amelia."

Ziva shot him a look at Cassie's name and then slid her gaze to the girls. "Hello, Amelia," she smiled, shaking the little girl's hand before turning toward Cassie. "And Cassie."

The girl didn't respond. She stared at Ziva, eyes roaming over the agent's face and hair, apparently too surprised to notice the hand extended to her.

"You're Ziva?"

"Yes. Agent Ziva David."

Eventually Ziva dropped her hand and studied the girl back, until the silence became uncomfortable. "Is something wrong?"

"You are just like her," Cassie said faintly.

"Just like who?"

The girl blinked, snapping out of the sudden reverie. "Oh," she muttered. "He did not tell you. Typical boy."

Ziva managed to pull out the polite inquisitive face, rather than the irritated killer one. "I am afraid I do not understand. You are sure everything is alright?"

"Yeah," Cassie said slowly. "Yes. Sorry. Um, I think Agent Gibbs wants to use that conference room?" She pointed at the door.

"Right." Ziva put away her confusion and turned to lead them in, but Gibbs gestured subtly for her to wait, waving Cassie and Amelia in first. His turn to be curious.

The older girl sat Amelia in the chair closest to the door and herself in the spot next to it, as close as possible to the exit without turning her back to it. Still cautious, then. Protective of the younger one. And very aware of her surroundings.

Gibbs and Ziva took the chairs across from Cassie.

"So. What can we do for you?" He looked from one girl to the other, and settled on the older one.

"Amelia has information about the kid that was killed at Ballou," Cassie said. She rested her arms on the table and clasped her hands together firmly.

Gibbs glanced from Cassie to Amelia. Going to a school and hoping for teacher leniency was one thing, but . . . "I'm not really supposed to talk to either of you without a guardian's permission, or at least a child welfare advocate present."

Amelia looked anxiously to Cassie to deal with that, and the older girl spoke up again. "Amelia wants to keep her involvement quiet. She doesn't want to testify or be a formal witness, so she doesn't need a guardian here. But what she knows could help you."

The girl spoke with just the slightest Spanish accent. Almost a lilt.

There was a significant pause.

Gibbs rested an elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. "Uh huh . . ."

A shadow of a grin flashed across Cassie's face. "And she will tell you this useful information. In exchange for your help in return, of course."

"Oh, of course. And what kind of help would that be?"

"She can't live here once she rats," Cassie said bluntly. "They might find out. Amelia has a sister in California. She wants to go live with her."

Once she rats.

Gibbs glanced between the two girls again. This was a far cry from his usual negotiations. For one thing, no one from legal was even in the room.

"And what does her sister have to say about that?"

"She wants me to come!" Amelia blurted, voice bright. Then she shrank back, clearly startled that she'd spoken – a little girl who couldn't contain her big news.

Gibbs shifted his gaze to look at her. "Who do you live with now, Amelia?"

But the girl had gone quiet again, staring back at him from under a soft cloud of hair.

"With foster parents," Cassie answered for her.

Gibbs sighed. "Why wasn't Amelia placed with her sister before now?"

"Well. It is really her sister-in-law. She recently married Amelia's brother."

Gibbs' index finger began to gently massage his temple. "And why wasn't Amelia placed with her brother?"

"He wasn't old enough at first," Cassie said neutrally. "Then he was in some trouble. But he cleaned up and enlisted. He's deployed now."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Marines?" How convenient.

Cassie looked at him, and suddenly – well, her face was still straight. But her eyes were smirking. "He is a Ranger."

Gibbs sat back slowly in his chair, exchanging a glance with Ziva. "I met some Rangers recently."

"Yes?"

Too mild. She _knew_.

"Amelia's brother wouldn't be anyone I know, would he?"

"No."

"Okay," he said wryly. This was surreal. "Either way I can't really interfere in foster care."

"Sure you can," Cassie said calmly.

Calm Cassie, Gibbs thought, his eyes roving over her face. He had to admit this girl made for an interesting interview. He had seen her fear, knew it was there despite the bold front. And he knew enough to recognize that kind of caution, to know that he didn't even want to guess at where it came from.

But whatever had happened, she wasn't letting it get the best of her. She was brave.

"You can call her case worker and encourage a home visit," she was saying. "And then you can recommend placement with her brother. It will have more weight coming from someone like you."

Gibbs frowned at that, looking at Amelia more closely. "A home visit will result in Amelia being removed from the family?"

"Yes."

"And how do you know she'll be placed with her brother? Especially when her brother is deployed?"

Cassie shrugged. "He just got married, bought a house and everything. He is a relative, even if he has been in some trouble before. Hopefully with your influence that will be enough."

She said that like she expected his influence to be profound.

"And if it isn't?"

She returned his gaze like he'd better hope that it was. "That would be disappointing. But we would find another way to get her out of DC."

"We?"

"Yeah."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Us. Not you."

Helpful. Gibbs thought over what he'd just learned, glancing at Amelia again. Even surreal, this negotiation was light years better than anything involving a lawyer. For one thing, it was going fast, no bull - Calm Cassie did not beat around the bush.

For another, this girl was well-informed. She knew about his latest adventure in Colombia, at any rate, and seemed to have anticipated the questions he was asking. Whatever her information was it promised to be good.

"Is this home visit going to be staged or the real thing?"

"Both," she said cryptically. He took that to mean that the reasons would be real, and the visit would be sure to uncover them.

"Oh, and the reward."

Gibbs pulled up his blank face. "Reward?"

Cassie's small smile was for real that time, not just a shadow. Apparently she found his blank face amusing. "The police are offering a $40,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Matthew's killer," she explained, suddenly very helpful. "That would make a nice college fund for Amelia."

Ziva shifted beside him, probably in disbelief. For his part Gibbs swallowed a grin, scratching his forehead to cover it. Cocky _and_ smart.

This was so much better than leaning on dope pushers.

"Yeah," Gibbs said finally. "Forty grand probably would. But the reward is for a conviction. That means being an official witness, testifying in court, the whole show."

"You won't need testimony. Her information is enough."

He narrowed his eyes. If he wasn't going to "need" testimony then she definitely knew something he didn't. Or thought she did.

"Hm." Gibbs folded his arms in front of him. "It's convenient that the one witness willing to step forward has a Ranger brother and a place to hide on the other side of the country. Plus a reason to get out of DC anyway."

"Yes."

"It's perfect. Might even call it a coincidence," Gibbs said.

"Call it what you want."

Cassie was way too confident. At first he thought she was tall. Now he was wondering if she was actually short, but older than he'd pegged her. Seventeen, maybe?

Gibbs let his gaze drift out the window for a moment. They had nothing solid going on Preacher or AK, and Kort seemed to think this school shooting was important to Gibbs' Calera hunt.

Important for some reason, he reflected irritably, that was thus far known only to Kort.

It wasn't like he didn't want the little girl out of a bad foster situation anyway, if that's really what it was.

"Alright," Gibbs sighed. "What do you know."

"Hold on," Cassie said sharply. "If this works and you do not come through for Amelia then Gray won't deal with you anymore. Ever. That won't be good for you." Her tone held an understanding of "won't be good" that no girl her age should carry. "It would not be smart to screw us over," she finished.

He considered her dark, serious eyes. She was here as some kind of proxy for Gray, then.

"Gray is . . . your brother?"

They didn't look related, beyond the hair. Cassie's coloring was darker. Gray's physique was more slender.

"Cousin? Friend?"

She ignored him. "The deal?"

"How do I know that Amelia's brother and sister-in-law will offer her a better situation?"

"Gray says they will."

"No, you say they will. And I'm afraid I don't just believe what I'm told, no matter who says it. I have to check."

Cassie considered that. "You can check. And you can break the deal if any of the important parts aren't true. If Amelia won't be in a good situation with her brother. Or if her information does not give you the killer. But if those two things are true, you make the move to California and the reward happen."

Gibbs raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And you'll just rely on my word? That's very trusting." _Particularly when you didn't even want to walk in here with me ten minutes ago._

Cassie flushed a bit and glanced between him and Ziva. She'd obviously caught what he was referring to, though he really hadn't meant her to. He had no intention of embarrassing the girl for her fear.

Gibbs revised her age in his head again. She could be as young as fourteen, he thought, looking over her face carefully. A really sharp mind would make a child seem older than she actually was . . .

"Gray says you'll come through," she said finally, chin up despite her lingering embarrassment.

So Gibbs himself didn't matter – her trust in Gray was absolute.

Even if it didn't help in his drug crusade, if this information led to the little boy's murderer it would be worth it. Hell, if it got Amelia out of a screwed up home it would be worth it. There was no bad option here, it was win-win.

Gibbs shook his head. Gray – and maybe Kort – had made sure of that. And delivered by a sweet little girl, too. Nicely played.

"Alright," he said. "It's a deal. The reward if the information gives us a conviction, that's all I can do as far as the money goes. California if the information leads to Matthew's killer."

_And maybe a move to California either way. _That would depend on the results of the home check_._

Cassie nodded. "Okay."

And that was that.

She turned to Amelia and gestured to the agents across the table. "Tell them."

Amelia had been following the conversation avidly, face swiveling back and forth between her protector and the cops like an announcer at a tennis match. When all eyes suddenly shifted to her she actually ducked.

Cassie leaned down to whisper some quick reassurance in her ear. Amelia's voice, when she spoke up a second later, was high and clear. "Well, so I go to Ballou? I was in my homeroom after school let out cause I forgot my notebook and I went back to get it." She fidgeted and glanced around the room between sneaking peeks at Gibbs and Ziva. "And my homeroom, it has windows so you can see the playground and I was looking to see if my friend Kaylee was there and I saw everything that happened that day that Matthew – when he got shot."

"Okay," Gibbs said. "What did you see, Amelia?"

"There was some older boys there, like eighth graders or high school boys? And some of them go to Ballou and some of them don't, so I didn't recognize all of them. And one of them who goes somewhere else had a gun and he was showing it off. They were standing in a circle all around it but I could see cause I was looking down at them, from the window?"

She looked up, and Gibbs nodded that he understood.

"And then they were kind of shoving each other but I couldn't hear what they were saying or anything. The windows was closed. But I heard the gun go off and I ducked and when I looked again everybody was running away except for Matthew."

"Do you know who the boy with the gun was?"

Amelia looked at Cassie.

"They call him LC," Cassie said. "For Little Capo. He goes to Lafayette. His uncle is AK."

Gibbs' fingers had been moving a little restlessly through all that, tapping the armrests of the chair. They stilled.

Beside him he felt it as Ziva drew up in her chair just the smallest bit, like a snake scenting prey. Like she always did when they _had_ it.

Cassie dug into the pocket of her pants and slid a piece of paper across the table. "This is his address. LC's I mean. I think you know where his uncle lives."

Gibbs picked up the piece of paper and glanced at it. A DC street.

"LC is a punk," she went on casually. "He will crack if you interrogate him. Word is he knows all about his uncle's business, too. AK has been trying to bring him into it, that is what LC has been bragging. Is that information good enough?"

Gibbs looked up from the paper to meet her eyes. "If he cracks," he said. "For Matthew. Yeah."

And if it got them AK . . .

Gibbs wondered idly what sort of gift would blow the mind of a girl Cassie's age. She was in that gray area, between an eight-year-old Kelly and the present-day Abby, that he didn't really know much about. The teenage years.

"He will sing," Cassie said firmly. "Like Beyonce."

Gibbs and Ziva exchanged puzzled looks.

Cassie slid a second piece of paper across the table. "Amelia's case worker. And the case supervisor's name is on there too, and her foster parents."

Gibbs picked it up, looked at it, and tucked it lazily in his pocket along with the address.

Cassie watched his movements. "Do you need anything else?"

Gibbs looked between the two girls, taking his time before focusing on Amelia. "I'd like to know why you didn't tell this to the police before, Amelia."

She turned immediately to Cassie, but surprisingly the older girl was quiet, simply returning Amelia's look and tipping her head toward Gibbs in a silent _Go on_.

Amelia looked back at Gibbs and eventually whispered, "Cass said I don't have to answer questions if I don't want to."

Gibbs gave her a wry smile, not too surprised to find she'd been coached just like Mateo. He returned her look with one that radiated honesty, something that in his experience rarely failed to work with kids. "No, you don't have to. I would like to know why you didn't go to the police, though."

The brown eyes looking back at him weren't really reluctant. They were confused. Like she didn't understand the question. Of course, none of the other witnesses to the murder came forward . . . .

Gibbs glanced at Cassie, who was definitely looking at him like he was an idiot. He reminded himself that her entire purpose here seemed to be arranging protection for the one witness they'd managed to coax out.

Right.

"How about why you're coming to talk to us now?"

The girl glanced at Cassie again, and after getting another nod, shrugged. "Well, I told Kaylee what I saw, which was _dumb _okay, and then she told her mom and her mom _freaked_. And she told Andre. And Andre talked to his boys and one of them told Cass, he said cause he was worried maybe other people would find out and I'd be in trouble? But Cass said she knew some cops who maybe if I helped them out then they would help us out."

"Who's Andre?"

Amelia smiled brilliantly. "Andre's my brother. He emails me every chance he gets. From Ramadi."

She pronounced it perfectly. "Oh yeah?" he smiled. "I've been there myself. Pretty far away."

Amelia sat up straight and slowly leaned forward, until her body was pressed against the edge of the table. She was looking at Gibbs like he was some disturbing cross between Santa Claus and the Grim Reaper.

It was a look he'd seen plenty of times before.

"It's really dusty there," she said, a slight question to it.

"Sure is." Gibbs kept his eyes on Amelia. "You're right about that. So Andre was worried and told Cass about it? They're friends?"

"Um . . . " Amelia turned to Cassie. Not because she didn't want to answer – this one she clearly didn't know. And Amelia suddenly wanted to make sure that Gibbs, who had been to Ramadi and come back, got the answers he was looking for.

Gibbs let his gaze turn to Cassie too.

She rolled her eyes at his effortless bid to charm the younger girl and ensure her cooperation. Well, transparent might be the better word. Ramadi hadn't been effortless in the least.

"I've never met Andre," Cassie said. "He knows some people that I know."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. Some people. Meaning Rangers like Rodge and Pete? Or people from the neighborhood, possibly. Like Gray.

"Is that all?" she pressed.

She was uncomfortable with questions that led back to her, that was obvious.

Gibbs pulled on his friendliest smile and relaxed back into his chair anyway. She might be uncomfortable, but compared to Gray, Cass was a regular chatty Cathy. He might as well . . .

"Maybe. I'd like to know who Ziva here reminded you of."

Cassie glanced between him and Ziva. Clearly not charmed by Gibbs' smile.

"Of course," she said after a moment. The voice was still preternaturally calm, but a little colder now. "You like to know others' secrets, but never give up your own. You understand this makes you . . . suspicious. Secretive people are hard to trust."

"Well, if you know what Gray knows then you've already got most of my secrets," Gibbs said easily.

"Do you think so?" Her eyes were very sharp. They reminded him of Ducky's shrewd gaze, on those rare occasions when the doctor decided to test his psych degree against Gibbs' head. "But those are not really your secrets, are they? I think that I know only what you have not bothered to hide," she said.

Gibbs stilled, the smile fading away.

He'd ignored the fact that she wasn't as calm as she appeared when he pressed beyond what was necessary. That she'd been controlling her fear from the moment she walked in here.

He was pretty sure he was about to pay for that.

Cass studied his features, the look she leveled at him on the aggressive side of defensive. It was unlikely that the conversation was going to swing back around to her - not if she had anything to say about it.

"_Why_ you did not bother to hide these things – that is a mystery, Agent Gibbs. Maybe you wanted to be caught. And then somewhere along the way you changed your mind? Do you even know? It is very curious. Your agents must wonder too, if they do not already know the reason. But I think you have never told this secret to anyone." She appraised him cooly. "Since you are so interested in secrets perhaps you would like to tell me now? To unburden yourself?"

Ziva leaned forward, probably to unleash the riot act, but Gibbs put up an arm. The girl in front of him projected a confident front, but they were on his turf, and he'd pushed. He was lucky she was only pushing back.

What she wasn't doing was running, even though the deal she'd come for was settled. That was interesting.

"That's a good catch," he said softly, keeping his eyes on hers. Keeping himself open, though it went against the grain. She was smart, he'd give her that. But he'd been interrogating for a long time. "I think my people do wonder about that. So, whoever Ziva reminded you of, that's a secret on the same level, huh?"

Cass stared at him for a long moment. And then, just a little, she relaxed. The look she gave him was a degree or two warmer. Like maybe she'd decided to cut him some slack.

Like maybe he'd passed a test.

"No, Agent Gibbs. It is not a secret at all. Gray is just shy sometimes, you know? He feels safer if others do not know anything about him. About the things that are important to him. This is like you, I think. If what I have heard of you is true."

"But not like you?"

"No," she said seriously.

"No secrets?" He propped his head on his hand again, grinned. "Really?"

"How have yours worked out for you?"

He smiled faintly at her. "Point."

"You are lucky your team has survived them. Secrets are like lies. They feel safe, but they are dangerous. And they eat trust like termites. So I will tell you, if you're really that curious. Agent David looks very much like Gray's mother."

Gibbs frowned into the silence. "And why is that a secret?"

Cass shrugged. "I just told you that it is not."

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow at her.

"He misses her," she said, looking just a shade uncomfortable for a moment.

Then she smiled, and the discomfort was gone. It was replaced by the cunning Ducky look.

Gibbs braced himself.

"And then there are the boys in Agent David's file," Cassie said. "Gray knows that he reminds her of them."

She waited. Gibbs stared at her blankly.

"The mission in Colombia was already complicated enough," Cassie went on. "And your agents did not trust him, not at the start. It would not have helped for Agent David to know that she reminds him of someone too. Discretion isn't the same as keeping secrets."

Silence. The boys in her file?

"No," Ziva said.

Cassie'e eyes slid innocently from Gibbs to the agent beside him. "No?"

"Gray does not have my file." Ziva's voice was smooth and hard, granite in audio waves. "Not from . . . that time."

"Kort was reluctant at first," Cassie nodded. "But we do not share your fondness for secrecy. Not from each other. Kort told us everything before Gray left with you and Tony for Camp Six."

"No. You are wrong."

Cassie didn't say anything, just stared back at Ziva.

Ziva leaned forward abruptly, the physical intimidation instinctive. "He _does not know_." Violence clawed around the edges of her voice, way beyond what was appropriate to the situation. Out of the corner of his eye Gibbs saw Amelia slowly press back into her seat, like a rabbit who'd just spotted a cougar.

Incredibly, Cassie was unfazed. "You are used to hiding things," she said calmly. "So you assume that others do not know. And Gray let you assume this. Perhaps because your teammates really do not know?" Her voice was positively sly. "Gibbs looks very curious."

Ziva stared at the girl.

"Our review of your file was not as thorough as it was for your teammates. We did not read it directly, or see the images," Cassie said slowly. Relentlessly spilling information. Gibbs actually felt a twinge of guilt - this was payback, at least in part, because he'd pushed. "The photographs, I mean. If that is what concerns you? But we had to know, before he went in with you. We had to know who you are."

Cassie frowned at Ziva, and Gibbs turned more of his focus to his agent. He was close enough to see the fine tremors in her hands.

Cassie sighed. "Secrets, you see? They are more trouble than they are worth. We have always kept them just for enemies, Agent David, not between ourselves. And I do not consider you an enemy. You deserve to know what we already do."

The girl finally turned her attention back to Gibbs. "Now do you feel you have all you need?" she asked flatly.

He scratched his chin. All he needed? This was the most productive conversation he'd had in months. Assuming Ziva survived the fallout. "Yeah. For now. How do we contact you?"

"Why would you need to do that?" She stood up. "Amelia's brother will be in touch about the reward once she's safe with him. Come on, Amelia."

Cassie walked out of the room quickly, head high, stride long, Amelia trailing.

"You stay here," Gibbs muttered to Ziva. She was so frozen in shock he wasn't sure she even heard him. He followed the girls out, closing the door behind him.

As he guided Cassie to a bench where they could wait for an escort Gibbs noted her crisp uniform and good shoes, the nice backpack over her shoulder. He didn't know what Gray's situation at home was, but the kid was always kind of scruffy. Gibbs could reassure himself, looking at Cassie, that someone was at least taking care of this one.

Amelia made a bee-line for the balcony railing. It was just past 1800 now and she stood there enthralled, watching the end of day bustle while Gibbs called down for a guard to guide them out – specifically asking for a female officer this time.

"Thanks for your help, Amelia," Gibbs said to the oblivious little one's back. "Cassie," he nodded seriously to her. "Thank you."

She actually laughed, amused that he was thanking her for the bomb she'd just dropped, and turned to follow the guard.

"Hey, Cass?"

The girl turned at Gibbs' call. He nodded toward Amelia, still pressed against the railing. "She going to be alright until the home review goes through?"

"You'll call the case worker? Today?"

"Yep."

Cassie nodded. "She will be fine."

Gibbs looked her over. "You sure?"

"Yes." But she hesitated before turning away again, pressing her lips together as she cast a look back toward the door of the meeting room. Where Ziva still sat. "Gray said - he said you would understand."

Gibbs nodded solemnly. "She'll be fine."

Cassie smiled, and took Amelia's hand to pull her down the stairs.


	38. Like Redemption

**Chapter 38: Like Redemption**

Gibbs had the case worker on the phone before the girls were out of the building. He called the supervisor too, while McGee put through the paperwork for a warrant on sixteen-year-old "Edward Greene" - aka Little Capo.

It was half an hour before he made his way back up to the conference room. Ziva had her elbows on the table, her head buried in her hands. Exactly as he'd left her.

Gibbs poured a glass of water and set it in front of her, taking a chair on the opposite side of the table.

He waited five minutes, looking at the top of her head and mulling over Cassandra Gray's words. Kids. Photographs. With what he did know of Ziva's past that was enough to make a pretty good guess.

Not only to what she was hiding, but why she'd been so determined to hide it from him.

"You want me to get someone else?"

She looked up at him, faint confusion the only emotion in dry, dull eyes.

She'd already lost one father, now she would likely lose another. It would only be worse if she fell apart in front of him.

"It's tearing you up, Ziva, whatever it is. Has been for awhile. You don't want to talk to me, that's fine." He wished she would. That she would just trust him. But their relationship was complicated by the job, and the past . . . all those secrets, Gibbs thought tiredly. The kid was right about that.

Gibbs' people didn't often confide in him, even when they were in trouble. It'd taken a long time for him to really care, and even longer for it to occur to him that this might be the reason why – that Cassie was right, that secrets made you hard to trust. Confidences, it turned out, were a two-way street.

Gibbs studied her dispassionately. She'd walled herself off again.

"You want me to call Tony?"

That got a reaction. Something between a gag and a laugh erupted from her throat.

Okay. Not Dinozzo. "Ducky?"

Ziva shoved herself into an upright posture, hands curling into fists on the table. She managed to press the tremors out of them, somehow. Gibbs watched them retreat up into her body and settle there. It was painful just to see it.

"Please do not tell them." She kept her eyes on her hands.

"I don't know anything," he reminded her. "So even if I wanted to . . . "

"You know that I am not the same person now." A demand. Or a plea.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I know that."

She stood up. "Then I am fine. The past is irrelevant."

She actually believed what she was saying, he thought. Any emotion had drained away.

"I would like to return to work now, Gibbs."

He tilted his head up to look at her and shifted irritably. "You think you're gonna make it to the end of the day, Ziva? The week? Sit down."

She sat in the chair like he'd just ordered her to climb onto the gallows.

"What exactly are you afraid of? That I'll turn you in?" he asked sardonically. "That we'll share cells?" Reminding her that she could nail him for murder if she really wanted to, not to mention the unholy conspiracy of a coverup that was the only thing keeping Gibbs out of prison for the last twenty years.

"No. But you will not – " she hesitated.

Respect her? Accept her? Or stick by her, like her father should have. She would probably always wonder, when push came to shove.

"I didn't dig into your time at Mossad, Ziva. But I've got eyes. I don't think I'll be too surprised."

She nodded, but still wouldn't look at him.

"Whatever it was in the past it's helping now," he pointed out. "With the kid. You're good with him."

She shook her head. "He knew. From the beginning - " Awful wonder in her voice.

They sat there in silence for what felt like a long time. She was mulling it over, working toward it, and he gave her the time.

"I was not supposed to be an assassin," she said finally. "My father wanted us to . . . climb the ladder? To be of the professional class. He wanted his children to have clean hands."

She laughed a little hysterically before seizing the water in front of her and drinking half of it down. "This did not turn out so well. Ari was the doctor. You know how that ended. I was to be an intelligence analyst, so I studied languages. That is a good route to promotion within government service."

Quiet.

"Do you know what distinguishes the most promising young intelligence operatives?" she asked abruptly.

"No."

"Interrogation. That is what my superiors at Mossad believed, anyway. And they thought I was very promising." The last of the water disappeared. "But not for the reasons that you – encourage – " she stumbled.

Gibbs nodded.

"I went directly from boot camp into intelligence work. I was nineteen. And then Tali was . . . we had pieces only of her. To bury." She managed to raise her eyes from the table up to Gibbs' shirt. "It was an exciting time to be in intelligence," she said dully.

Ziva would have been nineteen in 2001. Gibbs ran a hand around his mouth. "I bet," he said.

"You know enough, don't you. To know what I have done," she said tiredly. "There were four of them. You can read the file, see the pictures. I will tell Kort to give it to you . . . I will resign, or transfer. Whatever you think best."

He leaned forward on his elbows, lacing his fingers together in front of him. "I don't care about the file, Ziva."

"It is remarkable that he has it," she said idly. So far away she hadn't heard him. "Or has seen it, at least. Kort is extremely resourceful." The incident was sealed, even within Mossad.

"What happened?"

Ziva fidgeted, angry little movements. "What does it matter? The circumstance, explanations – that is all excuses, yes? But there is no excuse. I was angry, Gibbs, that is what happened. I was angry." She set her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her palms, like her head was too heavy to hold up. She didn't say anything for a good long time.

"Where?" he prompted.

"A black site operated in Eastern Europe." She paused, rubbed roughly at her forehead. "It was extremely hot. Even in October."

She pressed her fingertips down into her hair to keep them still. "There was no oversight," she said. "The mandated medical staff was not present. Not that they would have interfered if they were there. You have read the reports from that time."

Of course he had. Inquiries into torture. "This place was operated by the CIA?"

"In part. Kort was there very briefly. They told me he was an arms dealer who had become an informant. I remember him because he . . . he did not make a secret of despising us."

Her voice was so flat it was tinny. She was disassociating in front of his eyes.

"Why's that?"

"Because of the younger ones. Children of fanatics. Younger . . . brothers. Arrested with suspicious materials, or in suspicious places. Gray's age, perhaps. We exercised them outside . . . "

He was quiet. She would get there eventually.

" . . . interviewed them in the morning. The techniques were legal," she paused, face blank, and carried on. "The younger ones were more afraid than the adults, but also more resilient. More aggressive . . . it was either terror or stupid bravado, always, no inbetween. Like Cassie, I think. She was afraid of you, wasn't she? That is why you called me."

Gibbs nodded.

"And still she provoked you. All the more determined to show no weakness. No fear," Ziva added softly.

He let her stare at the table for a minute before prodding her on. "Cassie tried to be brave," he conceded. "I didn't catch any stupidity."

Ziva ran a nail along a seam in the table, following it with her eyes. "If you kept her awake for a hundred hours, you would."

Gibbs didn't respond. A hundred hours. Four days.

"Two hundred hours and you would not be able to catch any intelligence."

Silence. There were voices outside the room, briefly. And then only the whispers of the building, the humming of the lights.

"Four of the youngest we sometimes kept in one cell," she said. She spoke more quickly now - no desire to dwell here. "The more terrified they were the more they fought, and they fed off one another. We used that, of course. One afternoon they were unruly and a punishment of exercise for their block was imposed. I oversaw it."

She was quiet again, breathing carefully controlled. It stretched on too long.

"Heat stroke?" He'd drilled men in summer heat. Knew how suddenly it could kill.

She finally looked him in the eye with what seemed to be a Herculean effort. Like she thought not doing so would be cowardly. "Yes. Organ failure exacerbated by fatigue. Sleep deprivation. And water in their lungs."

He'd known it was coming. Still looked away at that. "All four?"

"Two were dead when we entered the cell in the morning. One was in a coma. He died several days later. The fourth – " Ziva looked at him desperately. "He opened his veins with a rock," she said robotically, "when he saw the others were gone. He was conscious when we found him."

"He survive?"

"No."

Gibbs lifted a hand, rubbing at the prickly skin around his mouth. She watched him without interest or emotion. Knowingly.

Well, there was no sugarcoating this. It would be idiotic to try, even if he wanted to.

"Sickening."

Her eyes flickered. "Yes."

"And it was swept under the rug." He'd certainly never heard of it, and the deaths of four boys in custody was news. Or should have been.

"Yes. The team was dismantled. There were five of us," she said. "Our supervisor was retired within a week. She does well now in the private sector. She . . ." Ziva cleared her throat and pressed her shaking hands once more into the table.

He looked at them and frowned. There was something worse?

"Gibbs." Her voice was faint again. "I think she may have worked in South America. I have been trying - since we returned from Colombia I have been trying to trace her movements."

It took a moment. "Gray said something when he was hallucinating?"

"Possibly. A nickname that she went by. It is a common - I don't know if it is the same woman. I don't know," she ran her hands through her hair as if she wanted to pull it out. "I don't know that it matters. I can't find her. But it could have been her."

Well, that actually managed to be worse. She was still out there. 'Working.'

"What's the name?"

"Ori, in Israel. He called her Orá," she said lowly. "_Oráculo_. In English she was known as the Oracle."

"And the rest?"

"The others were reassigned to less desirable positions within the intelligence command. I should have been tried and imprisoned but was given the opportunity to start over, in a unit more . . ." She paused to stare at him, and finally, hollowly, laughed. "Suited to my abilities. I became Kidon."

Gibbs let that go. It didn't matter. "Hell of a probie assignment."

She didn't miss a beat. "I had all the authority I needed to save them, if I had chosen to exercise it."

"Did you neglect the duties assigned to you?" He was genuinely curious about that. About what she_ thought_. He had a pretty good idea of what actually happened.

"No. Only my duty as a human being."

Gibbs nodded, rested his chin in his hand. "Dinozzo said Kort accused you of 'following the letter of the law.'"

"Yes." Ziva's lips curled into a faint, cold sort of smile. "I used to be very conscientious about following orders."

That sure as hell wasn't the case when she came to him five years ago. "Until . . . ?"

"Until I inadvertently murdered four children in my care."

"So you were following orders when you didn't check on them?"

Nothing.

"Your specific orders led to their deaths?"

"It does not absolve me of my responsibility, but that is one excuse among many, yes." Ziva's gaze wandered over to the window, as if she had better places to be. She carried on absently. "It is also the justification that carries the most weight for those with a military background . . . except for mothers. Parents, I mean. I have found that some of them have different standards . . . higher . . . when it comes to the death of a child . . ."

He sat there silently, letting her attention drift until her gaze came back to him, and the echo of that last, throwaway caveat hung in the air between them.

She stared at him and he stared back. He wasn't about to force it into the open, or force them on. She could take it up if she wanted to.

"You know," she said wonderingly.

He let his head tilt in acknowledgement.

"Huh," she finally said. "Just though observation, I take it. Of me?"

"Yes."

"Do the others . . .?"

"I doubt it. They wouldn't know what to look for."

She nodded. "I was undercover," she said hesitantly. "By the time the mission was over it was too late . . . "

"Occupational hazard," he said softly.

She blinked. "Oh. Yes, the Yoon Dawson case. That was – I was still new to the team then. You have known for so long?"

He shrugged. "Never knew, just wondered. Some things you said . . . " he trailed off. "Having a kid changes you."

"Yes, although - " She frowned, curled her hands together once again, stilled them. "I did not expect it to."

He smiled a little. "I'm not sure anyone does."

But she shook her head. "No, I was never going to - to keep it. The father – " She broke off to gather herself. "I could not raise her." She let her eyes graze over his face, and he nodded. "Though I suppose I would have wanted to, if it had been . . . if I could have . . . "

She sucked in a breath, and let it out carefully. "I never held her," she said, voice as steady now as her thoughts were scattered. "They say it is better not to, so that there is no attachment."

He couldn't imagine how that was possible. Not when the baby was wanted. From the look on her face Ziva couldn't either.

"You think about her?"

She nodded. "She would be seven. Is seven. After she was born - the boys - " Her hands curled into claws. "Somehow it became even more monstrous."

They sat there, silent under the weight of mistakes that would never truly leave them.

"We spend our lives protecting strangers and I can only wonder if she is safe. If she is happy. She could be dead, or need help. I would not know."

He had the faint urge to point out how unlikely that was. To say that she was probably fine - something reassuring, however useless. But he kept silent. Gibbs didn't do useless.

"It was a relief to come for you," she said, voice flat once more. "Like redemption, if that is possible." She turned her face toward the window again. "I have never been fortunate enough to protect my own family," she said slowly. "My parents never needed me. My siblings are dead, my brother at my own hand. My child . . . not even the children of other mothers, those boys in my care. But we were able to come for you. Tony and I." She smiled, small and tough. Like she was hiding something precious, something vulnerable from the world. "I have that."

**x**

Gibbs said she was a good person, in so many words, despite the fact that she'd been raised by wolves.

He said he would kick her ass if she resigned over an inept supervisor, one she'd had when she was all of nineteen.

But he would let her go home for the evening if she wanted to.

She did not want to.

Gibbs knew. And he did not despise her. She wanted to weep.

But Ziva didn't do that either. She went out with Tony into the DC night, and hauled "LC" into the Navy Yard.

They didn't even need to mention that a witness had come forward. The boy was patently terrified. Gibbs figured anyone that nervous would've tossed the weapon, so he had his agents fake finding the gun and lifting Greene's prints from it.

He had his mother and a hotshot lawyer sitting next to him, but the kid cracked in three hours anyway. Within four he'd made a deal to trade information on his uncle.

Tony explained who Beyonce was to Gibbs.

And that was how they got AK.

**x**

When Gibbs got back to his desk from interrogation it was well after midnight. McGee was waiting for him.

"Got the warrant, boss."

Gibbs watched Tony and Ziva slide behind their desks and open the drawers to pull out their gear. "Warrant for who?"

McGee frowned, comically puzzled. "Well . . for AK?"

"What for, McGee? We're not going to arrest him."

Tony straightened up. "We're – what? We're not?"

"Nope," Gibbs sat down. "Ziva, McGee. Go stake out his house. I want to know when he's there without any of his business associates around."

"Uh . . . " McGee glanced to the rest of the team for support.

Now all of his agents were comically puzzled. Gibbs grinned a little, which only added fear to the mix.

"If we're not going to arrest him what are we going to do to him?"

Gibbs picked up a piece of paper sitting on his desk and held it out a bit, trying to read what kind of form he was looking at, to no avail. He reached for his glasses. "Well, McGee, we're going to do what Dinozzo thinks I do best."

"Ah, that's easy," Tony smiled widely. "You're going to – " And then he broke off, his eyes widening. "You're going to . . .?"

Today had been a good day, and Gibbs was in a good mood. He hid his grin by looking down at his paperwork, waiting for whatever Dinozzo would come up with as a substitute for _You're going to shoot him_.

" . . . You're going to . . . haul AK into interrogation and give him the old steely-eyed stare? . . . To death?"

"No," Gibbs said mildly. "I'm going to recruit him. Whether or not that will be the death of Uncle AK is hard to say at this point." He looked up to see all of them standing there, staring at him. Gibbs glared from Ziva to McGee. "What are you two still doing here?"

They scrambled for the elevator in an entirely satisfying way.

Tony and Gibbs worked with Abby on matching up months of surveillance with the insider information LC had given them. It wasn't difficult to begin connecting the dots. AK had truly begun grooming his nephew to be his right hand man. It was how the kid got his hands on a gun in the first place.

Less than two hours later Gibbs got the call from Ziva. It was 0215 and AK was at home with only his family for company. Gibbs called him up and, when there was no answer, had his agents pound on the door until there was one. McGee handed his phone to the man and Gibbs invited him down to NCIS, offering a number of compelling reasons to visit. McGee and Ziva trailed him in.

The man sat blinking across from Gibbs in the interrogation room, sleepy and confused as hell, a little worried for his nephew and a lot terrified for himself. AK was not a titan of ambition, like Londono, or an insane, power-drunk dictator, like Paloma. He wasn't anywhere near as smart. AK was midlevel. Cunning, like most dirty businessmen, and selfish to the point of cruelty, like most dealers. But that was all. A simple, greedy mouth, always looking for the best deal, grabbing for the shiny trinket, always hustling for a little more.

And right then NCIS had a lot to offer. His favorite nephew's future. His beloved sister's happiness. His business, his freedom, maybe his life. They had his whole world in their hands.

They made the deal before dawn.

LC would be tried as a juvenile, and not for murder. Gibbs agreed with Cassie's assessment there. The kid was a punk, under the control of his uncle, showing off for his friends. His stupidity had gotten a boy killed, but it _was_ an accident. Manslaughter. LC would certainly spend the next several years in detention, but Gibbs was probably doing him a favor. If he'd stayed under his uncle's influence an idiot of that calibre could well have earned himself a thirty-year sentence before he even left his teens.

Whatever leniency Uncle AK got would depend on the quality of the information he brought back to Gibbs, but no guarantees. NCIS had already been generous.

Six hours after he first entered the Navy Yard, AK left it as an informant. He carried with him a brand new ambition – to work his way up the ranks.

**x**

The team was exhausted.

Tony took Ziva out for breakfast anyway. He had the waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, and she had the omelet with cheese and tomatoes.

He explained how everything you need to know about informants you can learn from 'Goodfellas,' and she explained that Mossad didn't often deal with informants, and he said that was because the Israeli ninja crew was too scary to make deals with anyone, and they both laughed. When he dropped her back at her place he walked her to the door, and gave her a hug before he could stop himself.

She hugged him back, finally, and it kind of went on a long time. He wasn't sure, but it was very possible that she cried into his shirt. When he asked, Ziva told him she was fine. And for the first time in months he believed her.

* * *

><p><em>an: __For anyone curious, the Yoon Dawson case and its examination of the occupational hazards of covert agents can be found in Season 3, Episode 14, "Light Sleeper."_

_Thanks as ever for reading, and for feedback!_


	39. House Call

**Chapter 39: House Call**

"Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs!"

"He's not here, Abs."

Tony was so deep into Petty Officer Joseph Reynold's bank statements he didn't even look up.

Bank statements aren't very interesting, as a rule. Unless, of course, something totally hinky is going on in them. Officer Reynolds' statements were _extremely_ interesting, which meant he had a lot of explaining to do. Like how he expected to get away with smuggling heroin when his bank accounts were so obviously those of a heroin smuggler.

But then Abby chuckled, and in a really satisfied way, so Tony did look up.

"I've got something so secret even _Gibbs_ doesn't know I've got something," she grinned.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "On Reynolds?" If Abby was impressed by a secret it would have to be good - like, international spy ring good. Tony wouldn't have thought little Joey Reynolds had it in him.

"Nope," Abby grinned again, and skipped off.

When Gibbs got back from the witness interview Tony told him that Abby was looking for him and trailed the boss down to the lab.

Abby didn't even turn around when they walked in. "South Africa, Gibbs!"

Gibbs walked up to look over her shoulder at the computer screen she was staring at. "Yeah? What's in South Africa?"

"Kort," she said smugly.

Knowing where Kort was, they had discovered, was damn impressive all by itself. The man was either a phantom or the most paranoid agent Gibbs had ever come across, and that was saying something.

But Kort had actually told Gibbs he was in South Africa pretty recently, so it wasn't all _that_ impressive.

Gibbs did the eyebrow raise, like she knew he would.

"And I know why." Abby gave him her thousand watt smile. El Jefe did the _spill it_ gesture.

"He's doing the same thing in South Africa that he was doing in Colombia ten years ago, before he'd ever heard of La Grenouille," she said leadingly.

Gibbs did the gesture again, but less patiently this time. Not that it had been all that patient before.

"_Arms_ dealing, Gibbs! Well, I mean, going undercover against arms dealers, not actually dealing them himself."

"He's undercover in South Africa?"

"Yep. See, you said that the Calera patrols were carrying American rifles. And the easiest place to find black market M4s right now is the Middle East, specifically Iraq and Afghanistan. Bad guys there sell them to bad guys in Africa, and bad guys in Africa - " Abby dramatically hit a few keys, and a pixelated snapshot of a man came up. " - Sell them to bad guys all over the world, including the Calera cartel. Meet Declan O'Donnell," she said proudly. "Roberto Londono's gunrunner. Among other things."

Tony leaned in, staring at the pale blob on the screen.

This was actually huge. They didn't even have a verified recent photo of Londono yet, much less his lieutenants, and they had no positive names at the top of the organization, no idea who he had doing his army's worth of dirty work.

Until now.

"South African?" Gibbs squinted at the screen. O'Donnell was a white guy, tall and thin, dark hair and pasty skin. In the photo he was standing in front of a rundown store front. He looked - well, pasty -

"Nope. Irish. In the late eighties he comes up with a string of arrests in Belfast. Disorderly conduct, b&e, destruction of property, posession. Assault, aggravated assault, sexual assault - lots of assaults, basically, increasingly nasty stuff. And that's just his juvie record. Then he disappears from the scene for awhile, until 1992, when he was arrested again and questioned for several days under suspicion of buying guns for the IRA. According to British Intelligence he rose through the ranks pretty quickly and eventually fled to Colombia with two other IRA weapons experts, probably to buy guns and train with Colombian guerillas. When peace broke out between the UK and Ireland in the mid-nineties the arms business back home dried up, so he stayed in Colombia and met . . . "

"Londono?" Tony said.

"_Exactamente_," Abby nodded. "We know that Roberto Londono had just taken over what remained of his dead brothers' cartel and begun to seriously rebuild. We don't have any information on Londono directly, but we do know that he must have been recruiting right around the time O'Donnell was offering his services for hire. British Intelligence still kept tabs on O'Donnell's movements, so we also know that he spent a lot of the next decade moving in and out of Londono's region, and he eventually began spending more and more time in South Africa. Probably buying more and more guns for the cartel."

Gibbs frowned at the profile on the screen. "How'd you find him, Abs?"

"The old stuff came from Ziva's contacts in British Intelligence. The new stuff - well, I think it's because he's finally stopped working exclusively for the Colombian control freak. For the past year he's spent more time in Cape Town than Colombia and started doing odd jobs for weapons dealers based there - finding other buyers in South America and also some in the States. That brought him to the attention of the CIA, which is where I found most of this," she gestured at the screen. "He's not as good at covering his tracks when he's not working directly with Londono. Kort must be aware that one of Londono's men set up shop in Cape Town, since the guy's on CIA radar and we already know Kort's in South Africa . . . " she glanced at Gibbs.

He nodded. Too many coincidences. He'd put money on Kort tracking O'Donnell, too.

"So you've been tracking Kort, tracking O'Donnell?" Tony asked.

"No," Abby said emphatically. "Tracking Kort is not possible. I told you before, he's a ghost man. Now that I know he exists O'Donnell's a whole hell of a lot easier to find."

They'd dug into Kort and hit a dead-end after he graduated from college in the UK. Once he'd joined the CIA, or whoever it was who first taught him to disappear, the trail went absolutely cold. At least they knew now why the whole disappearing thing was so effortless for Gray.

"Forget about Kort," Gibbs said. "Focus on O'Donnell, see if you can find anything else on him." He stared at the screen for a few more seconds. "And look into what happened to the other two IRA guys."

Tony glanced over at that. "You think they might have gone in with Londono together?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Don't know."

When he looked up from the screen Abby and Tony were both looking at him with the "But?" faces.

Gibbs shook his head. Give them an inch and they . . . well, on Gibbs' team they were at least quietly hopeful for another inch.

"But," he said pointedly, "we know Gray's mother looks like Ziva." Dark hair, dark eyes. Hispanic. Colombian, probably, and from the Calera region. Which meant his father -

Abby's eyebrows shot up. Gray's eyes were _gray_. Recessive. "Which means his father is probably a pasty white guy with pale eyes, blue or gray," she said. At the very least he carried some pale genes. And those would be in short supply on Calera land.

She looked back at the screen. Into O'Donnell's crystalline blue gaze.

"You think . . . ?"

Gibbs leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Good job," he murmured, cutting her off. "Call me when you've got something on the new guy."

"Si, el jefe," Abby recovered, and called after him in a sing-song, "Forget about CIA Caspar, the not-very-friendly British ghost. Dig up dirt on our Irish El Diablo. I'm on it!"

Tony had to get back to Petty Officer Reynolds' bank statements before Gibbs came calling for an assessment, so he was on the boss's heels as Gibbs swept out of the lab.

Dinozzo only narrowly avoiding smashing into him. Gibbs was in the doorway when he stopped dead in his tracks. "What did you say?"

Abby quirked an eyebrow in his direction, her attention already back at her computer. "I'm on it?"

"No." Gibbs stepped back into the lab. "You said 'El Diablo.'"

**x**

Over the next few weeks delicate inquiries were made into former IRA operatives last spotted in South America, as well as a shadowy figure known in some circles as El Diablo. A month passed in routine. The team checked in with AK and worked a load of MCRT cases.

Ziva got the call at 0130. It was an unfamiliar number, but they were on duty that night. Most likely Gibbs had destroyed yet another cell phone and was borrowing some stranger's. She picked up and made a half-ditch attempt to clear the sleep from her voice. "David."

"Agent David, this is Cassandra Gray. I need to reach Agent Gibbs."

Ziva sat up, blinking in the dark. "Cassie? Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Gibbs once said he has access to a doctor? But we do not know how to reach him."

"You are injured?"

There was a pause, some weird shuffling on the line. "Not me," Cassie said.

"I can call the doctor," Ziva spoke quickly. "Where are you?"

"His house. But there is no answer."

Ziva took a moment to figure that out. She paused when it did come to her, right in the middle of pulling on a pair of pants one-handed. "You are at Gibbs' house?"

"Yes."

"What is the injury, Cassie?"

Another hesitation, and a murmured conversation. "We do not want an ambulance."

"Okay," Ziva shoved her feet into the nearest pair of shoes. "Only the doctor."

"He has been shot in the leg. But it does not appear to be serious."

Ziva stood still for a moment. "Can I call you back at this number, Cassie?"

"Yes."

Ziva hung up, snaked into a bra and shirt, and dialed Gibbs, snatched up her keys with her free hand. He answered immediately, voice rough with sleep.

"Gibbs. Cassandra Gray is at your house with someone who is injured. They want a doctor but not an ambulance. I am calling Ducky." She hung up without waiting for a response.

Gibbs frowned and shoved his cell back into his pocket, mentally playing back his agent's words at a speed that could be deciphered. Then he picked up the pistol sitting on the bench next to him and jumped up the stairs, technicolor images of a bloody Amelia exploding in his mind's eye. She was supposed to be leaving for California this weekend -

When he edged aside the living room curtain he spotted two dark figures sitting on his porch, breath puffing white in the frigid January air. A wash of relief hit him instantly. They were both too big to be Amelia. He opened the door, gun partially raised, and swept the area beyond the porch for threats. An SUV parked in his driveway started its engine and pulled out, driving away as Gibbs watched.

He frowned and nodded to the car, tucking the gun into the small of his back. "That your ride?"

"Yeah." Gray was sitting on the floor, Cassie kneeling next to him, hands clamped over one leg. "You didn't answer the door."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Door's open."

Gray looked up at him, uncomprehending, then let it go. "About that doctor?"

The kid waved a hand down at his leg. There was a dark, tight tie of some kind wrapped around his upper thigh – a tourniquet – stemming the flow of blood that had already stained his jeans dark down to the ankle.

"On his way." Gibbs stepped closer and eyed the leg, noting absently that Gray wasn't wearing a coat, just a heavy sweatshirt, even though the forecast was for sno – wait. "Have you been _shot_?"

"Yeah."

Gibbs stood frozen for a second, staring at Gray's expressionless face as warm air flowed over his shoulders, out of his house. But the only thought really penetrating was that the kid attracted more disaster than Dinozzo.

"Hold on a minute." Gibbs retreated back into his living room and spread a blanket out on the floor, throwing a pillow at one end. Duck would want easy access, which ruled out the narrow couch. He reappeared in the door a moment later.

Cassie was closing a blood smeared phone, the other hand still clamped over Gray's wound. "Ziva says the doctor will be here in fifteen minutes."

"Let's get you inside."

Gibbs cautiously slipped an arm under Gray's shoulder and pulled him upright. Cassie took the other side and together they eased him into the house and set him down on the blanket, head toward the fireplace and his feet toward the door, a couch cushion folded under the leg to prop it up.

In the bright light the blood on his jeans looked dark and dull, at least, not fresh. There was a tight bandage wrapped around the wound itself. Gibbs checked the tourniquet curiously. It was good. "Did you apply this?"

Cassie nodded, yanking her coat off.

"When?"

She pulled a sleeve back to look at her watch. "Forty minutes."

Gibbs nodded. Duck would want to know.

She resumed her place at Gray's side, hands coming down to cover the wound again. Gibbs noted she was pushing down with most of her weight, keeping pressure on it. Doing everything right.

No ambulance, Ziva said. There was nothing else to do now but wait for Ducky.

Gray leaned back on his hands and tipped his head up, staring at Gibbs' ceiling. He didn't look like he was about to pass out, though the blood loss was obviously significant. He didn't even look stressed out. He was just . . . blank. Breathing a little heavy though, and his skin was pale, face covered in a sheen of sweat despite the cold outside.

The two teenagers were quiet, weird silence enveloping the three of them. Cassie's eyes travelled methodically around the room, cataloguing everything in it.

A little crawling feeling pricked the back of Gibbs' neck. This routine – well, it looked like it was _routine_. They'd done it all before.

"So," Gibbs stared down at them, arms across his chest. "No hospital?"

Can't," Gray said, addressing the ceiling. "Kort's not around to fix it."

Gibbs thought that over, trying to find a loophole that he could drive an ambulance through. McGee and Abby were good at hacking, together he knew they were among the best. But they didn't have the resources of the CIA behind them, and fixing a hospital visit would be complicated. It wouldn't just be medical records. There would be the cops that a gunshot would pull in, probably child welfare and a social worker that Gray's age would bring out of the woodwork, more cops to pursue an investigation into whoever shot the kid. And after that, who knew what else? What would Child Welfare make of this kid's life after doctors had performed a thorough exam? Would Kort even be able to throw them off the scent at that point? All the computer wizardry in the world couldn't tackle a web that big, that _human_.

Gibbs rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and stared at the floor, turning it over in his mind, looking for another way.

"It's not worth it." Gray was looking at Gibbs now. "Going to an ER. Pulling your people in. Be a mess to cover up."

The phrases were short and Gibbs knew why. The words were broken up by the effort it took to breathe through pain. The tone was steady, the look calm, but none of that meant a damn thing.

It'd been one thing in the jungle, when the kid was hurt there. Trotting off to the hospital wasn't an option then. But now it was. And for a father or a cop – well, for Gibbs – that meant Gray got a trip to the hospital, not triage in the living room. Thorough, extensive medical care, with lots of tests, just to make sure, and specialists in case things went wrong, and all the endless resources of American wealth. Because it was _there_.

Instead a kid was sitting on a blanket in his living room, bleeding into his friend's hands. Gibbs could feel his gut turning to stone. The usual reaction when he came across something that felt wrong to this degree. When Kelly was sick – damn, when she'd broken her arm, they'd been –

Gray sat up a little straighter, eyes fixed on Gibbs. "If this isn't gonna work," a quick breath, "we can head out. Get fixed up some– "

"Shut up," Gibbs sighed. Gray would bolt at the first hint of a trip to the ER, hole in his leg or not. "And lay back. It'll lessen the blood flow to the wound."

Gray studied him until he seemed satisfied that Gibbs wasn't going to freak out to the tune of a 911 call. Then he reached behind him and pulled out the pistol that was tucked into the back of his pants, placing it next to him before he lowered the rest of his body to the floor.

Gibbs rubbed his face with his hands and managed to talk himself into accepting the situation. The first step to acceptance was the decision to have McGee and Abby try to track Kort down tomorrow morning, just so Gibbs could ream him out.

But before that they would fix the current situation. Might as well get the ball rolling. "You want me to cut the leg off your pants?" Gibbs asked. "Or you want to lose the pants altogether?"

"Easier . . . take them off," Gray muttered.

Gibbs nodded. Ducky would want to examine the entire leg anyway with a wound that high. He knelt down and started on the laces of a boot, the one covering the foot that wasn't attached to a leg with a bullet in it. When he switched to the injured leg he held the foot as still as possible while he pulled out the laces and slipped off the shoe.

Gray unsnapped the button of his jeans one-handed and pulled down the fly.

Gibbs hesitated. Gray wasn't on death's door, obviously, but at the same time the amount of blood indicated a pretty significant wound, and taking off his pants - even cutting them off - would involve some major jostling. "You taken anything for pain?"

"No."

"We'll wait for the doc," Gibbs decided. "It'll be – "

Gibbs turned suddenly toward the window, holding up a hand to quiet the kid's response. There was something moving out there. He picked up his gun and put a knee on the couch, pushing the curtain aside just a hair to peer out.

**x**

Ziva beat Ducky by ten minutes. She parked around the corner and walked the perimeter before making her way into the house, weapon drawn, to find Gibbs sitting on his couch with a pistol on the coffee table in front of him. Gray was on the floor next to another gun, Cassie hovering over him.

"Have a nice walk?"

Ziva nodded without really looking at Gibbs. "Everything appears to be secure." She moved closer to the kids on the floor. "Is anyone pursuing you, Gray?"

He frowned at her, confused.

Gibbs could just imagine how that would be a complicated question. Was the Calera cartel pursuing him? The CIA? Some local gang?

Who the hell knew? Gibbs was pretty sure that the only reason every slimeball in DC wasn't busting down the door to get a crack at the kid was the sole fact that Gray . . . didn't really seem to exist. He was a ghost, and that made him damn hard to track down. God knows Gibbs' team had searched but there was no trace of him anywhere, no evidence of his existence – except, of course, for the warm, generally bleeding body that occasionally crossed Gibbs' path.

Why go through all the trouble to be a ghost? Or to create one, if you were Kort? Only one reason stood out. Gibbs would bet his rifle there were bad guys out there trying to bring the kid down.

He sighed. Not a problem for tonight, hopefully. "Ziva wants to know if whoever shot you is still after you," he explained from the couch. "And if they're likely to show up here."

Gray's face smoothed out. "No."

Well, that was decisive. Sounded like Gray had already 'taken care of' the problem. In Colombia that involved a fairly high body count.

Gibbs felt a tension headache descending. "Anyone else out there in need of a doctor? Or an ambulance?"

"No."

"How about the morgue?"

Gray didn't answer.

Goddamn. That was a _yes_, wasn't it?

Gibbs propped an elbow on the arm of the couch and rubbed a finger across the top of his forehead. "Is that pistol a murder weapon?"

Gray looked deliberately at the gun next to him. He smiled, not the real one by a long shot. "Could be."

The smile never faltered in the face of Gibbs' stone-cold stare.

Cassie muttered something sharp and annoyed under her breath, speaking in her friend's ear. Gray shrugged.

She looked at Gibbs, nodding at the pistol on the floor. "That is not ours and we have not fired it. It is the gun that was used to shoot Gray," she said curtly. "It was an accident. There were no witnesses. The shooter is dead. Gray did not kill him. Now do you think you could wait to interrogate him until after he is treated? Is that the doctor?"

The lights of Ducky's Morgan swept over the lawn and cut out in the driveway.

Gibbs stood, picking up Gray's pistol with a piece of paper - he didn't carry gloves with him in his own home - and setting it on top of his gun safe before heading to the door to meet Ducky.

The doctor bustled in and set down a large black case in the front hall. "Ah! Jethro. I understand the famous _Gray_ is visiting here, while he really should be on his way to the hospital. Gunshot wounds are nothing to be trifled with, 'serious' or not."

Ducky tugged off his hat and trench coat and flung them both at Gibbs, blowing past the other man and into the living room. "And here you are." Ducky's eyes swept Gray and Cassie critically, all business. "What an honor. Just as Ziva described you. Is that the entrance wound then?" Ducky plunked himself down on his knees beside Gray, hovering on the opposite side from Cassie. "Is this your only injury?"

"Yeah."

The doctor opened the case he'd set beside him and pulled on gloves, glancing at Cassie. "And you my dear? Are you all right?"

"Yes."

Ziva stepped out of the way and Gibbs lowered himself into the armchair next to her, resting his elbows on his knees. He watched closely, gathering material for the rant that was coming to Kort.

Ducky asked to take a quick look at the wound and Cassie lifted her hands, giving the doctor room to slice into the boy's jeans and inspect the area.

"Shot's a .357, Duck," Gibbs said. Not a small round.

"Yes, I see," Ducky muttered. "Alright then. Any allergies? Except to bullets, of course."

"No."

Ducky turned to the case, pulling out a needle and syringe. He'd drawn up the fluid swiftly and was lowering it toward Gray with equal speed when the kid lurched up and held out a hand to fend him off. But Cassie got there first, reaching out snake-fast to catch the doctor's wrist.

Duck froze, along with everyone else in the room.

"What is that?" Cassie asked calmly.

"A painkiller. Quite harmless."

"No," Gray said.

"I'm sorry?"

"The local stuff. Don't want anything . . . else." His breathing was ragged now, the pain more obvious. Control finally slipping after all this time.

Ducky frowned, his wrist still caught in Cassie's hand. "I'm not sure I understand you."

"Local anesthetic is acceptable," Cassie said slowly. "He does not want general painkillers. No opiates."

Ziva turning slightly to catch Gibbs' gaze. He shook his head and closed his eyes.


	40. Cut Once

**Chapter 40: Cut Once**

Ducky twisted his hand out of Cassie's gently. She let him go but kept her arm hovering over Gray's body, ready to ward off any sudden needle jabs.

"A local anesthetic would be grossly inadequate," Ducky said firmly. "Whatever you may believe that wound is deep and serious. A general pain – "

"Don't want it," Gray growled.

The doctor blinked down at the kid for a long moment. "So far this evening you have been shot, you refused hospitalization, and now you refuse treatment. I'm not entirely sure you are competent to make the decision."

"He is not refusing treatment," Cassie replied, tone steadfastly neutral, even in the face of the agitated doctor and Gray's obvious deterioration.

Gibbs wondered what it would take to get her rattled - if it was even possible.

"But we can find it elsewhere if you will not treat him." She eyed the black case sitting next to Ducky. "The bullet is not even in the bone. I could patch him up if I had the supplies."

Ducky studied the girl in front of him. "And how would you know where the projectile is?"

"It is intact, here." She placed two fingers on the outer side of the leg just above the knee, a good six inches down and to the side from the entrance wound – a slanting, downward shot, then. "I believe it travelled exclusively through tissue."

Ducky reached into the cut he'd made in the jeans to feel the area, movements excessively gentle, then twisted around to look at Gibbs. No doubt to find some rational figure to plead his case to in the face of all this insanity. "Jethro – "

Unfortunately Gibbs couldn't see any real sane options on offer here. "Will using just the local stuff compromise his treatment?"

"Well – " Ducky harrumphed. "You mean beyond needless pain and suffering? Not if it is truly only tissue damage, and assuming he can be held down. I can't use so much that it would numb the entire area. Half a foot long, deep, and the angle - it will be a complicated wound to clean."

"You sure?" Gibbs asked Gray.

Gray nodded.

Gibbs' eyes slid back to Ducky. His doctor should know, Gibbs figured. "He's a recovered addict, Duck. Can you use just local?"

Ducky sat back on his heels for a second, studying the expressionless boy and then the bloody leg in front of him.

"Alright then," he said finally, uncharacteristically grim. "Though I should like to state for the record that I do not agree with this course of action." He reached back to his case and picked up yet another needle and syringe, once again moving swiftly. "I trust you have no objection to antibiotics?" he muttered testily.

"Big fans," Cassie assured him.

Ducky swiped at the crook of Gray's arm with alcohol, loaded him up with the approved drugs, and went off to scrub his hands. Gibbs disappeared into the basement and returned with one of his bright work lamps, focusing it over Gray's lower half. The tourniquet, followed by Gray's pants and the bandage over the wound itself, was gently removed, the tourniquet finally reapplied.

Cassie kept up a low, soothing patter, congratulating Gray on choosing button-up boxers that morning, speculating on how long he would be on crutches and how grumpy that was likely to make him, asking Gibbs if he could get a clean gauze pad out of Ducky's case for her. She lay the fresh pad over the exposed wound before pressing back down.

Somewhere along the line the girl had been trained by a medic.

Ducky returned, pulling fresh gloves over clean hands and finally loading the leg up with as much local anesthetic as he dared.

When he was done the doctor just sat back and looked at the kid. Gibbs was a little concerned at how pale Ducky was. He'd never seen anything medical phase the man.

"We just need to wait for that to kick in," he murmured. "Won't be a minute or two."

"Cop," Gray said. He held a hand out to her.

Cassie nodded and turned toward Gibbs. "You'll hold his leg? The doctor will need to work over the wound."

He frowned at her for a moment before he got it. She didn't have the strength in her arms to hold him still. Gibbs looked for Ducky's nod before sliding off the chair he was in and onto the floor, ready to take over. Cassie left off the pressure on Gray's wound to shift up toward his head, and Gibbs placed his hands over the pad. It felt hot.

When Ducky nodded to him Gibbs left off the wound itself and settled one hand just above Gray's knee and the other at his hip. With his right hand Gibbs could touch the floor with thumb and forefinger. He had to wonder how the bullet could possibly have found enough tissue to bury itself in.

Gray put an arm over his eyes. Cassie placed her hands on his shoulders and finally looked expectantly at Ducky. Steady. Calm. Another horrifying routine.

The doctor nodded. He'd already laid out everything he could possibly want to use. "Ziva, if you would don a pair of gloves and hand me what I need, as I ask for it?"

"Certainly." She came to kneel by Ducky.

Duck looked up at Cassie at the last second and frowned. "He will be able to throw you off."

"Yes," she said easily. "But he won't."

Well, Ducky reassured himself, if Gray flailed about too much Ziva would be able to assist the girl, and Gibbs could certainly hold the leg . . . time to stop stalling.

He bent over his task and immediately tuned absolutely everything else out. A trick he'd learned in his blood-soaked years as a field surgeon.

So he removed the gauze covering and treated the patient. Inspected the entrance and flushed the damaged tissue of debris. Scrubbed clean the path of the bullet, as much as could be reached, removing a few small fragments along the way, and trimmed the scorched, ragged edges of the entrance wound. He had to slice open a new path to remove the bullet itself, since it was impossible to reach through the arching path it had carved through the flesh.

The bleeding was an annoyance, but not so severe as to be dangerous. Once the projectile was out he flushed and cleaned that area as well, until the entire unnatural tract had been swept out. Finally he stitched up the clean incision.

Ducky only came back to himself as he dressed the wound, almost an hour later. The patient seemed to be alright, as far as these things go. Rigid, shaking, sweating profusely. He breathed deeply and deliberately, a slight high pitch to his respiration now. Ducky couldn't recall if the boy had cried out at all. He only knew he wouldn't necessarily have heard it - there had been times, before, when he had heard nothing at all, even though he'd seen that they were screaming.

Jethro had that tight, wary look about him, the one always brought to the fore when children or those he felt responsible for were suffering. His hands were still locked tight around the leg, his brow damp with the careful effort of holding the limb down without causing any further damage. The man was looking at him closely now, hopefully. Asking that this be the end of it.

Ducky nodded slightly, and some of the tension dropped out of Gibbs' shoulders.

"I've done all I can," he said, directing Jethro to lift the leg a bit so that he could wrap more gauze around it. Ducky's voice sounded strange in his own ears, far away, somehow, as if the air itself had become heavy in the long, tense silence they'd shared. "Now it is time to rest, my boy. I'll change the dressing and inspect for infection tomorrow, but at the moment I see no reason to expect any complications. You were extremely lucky the little bugger didn't hit an artery, or your femur, my goodness. I can only offer you Motrin for relief overnight, and then of course another round of local anesthetic tomorrow. I'm afraid any more this evening would be imprudent."

As he spoke Gibbs sat back silently on his heels, head bowed low. Ignoring the rest of them as he wiped damp palms on his jeans.

Ducky removed the tourniquet last of all and set about climbing to his feet, only to have his forearm seized in a tight grip.

The movement brought him back forty years in the blink of an eye, when an endless parade of desperate boys grasped at him just like that, flailing at his arms, scrabbling at his chest.

He glared down, a little wild, but came back to himself when he saw the patient was still now, and reassuringly calm. Gazing back up at him with eyes like gray pearls.

"Thanks." The voice was gravelly now where it wasn't before.

"You are very welcome." He patted the young man's chest with a suddenly trembling hand. Damn lucky that hadn't started until after the procedure. "It quite brought me back to my days in the Army," he said stoutly. "I could tell you some stories but they're much too exciting for a patient in need of rest."

And Ducky was going to have nightmares enough already.

The boy sat up and swiped at his sweaty face with the hem of his t-shirt. The hand shifted and then it was under Ducky's arm, like a support.

The gray eyes now level with Ducky's were – well, they were bright. And not unkind. "Seriously." Woozily. "Feel good. Sure you gave me local?"

"Ah." Ducky patted the thin shoulder. "You did lose quite a bit of blood. I see delirium is setting in."

"Oh, no," Cassie piped up from behind Gray, speaking for the first time in an hour. Tired, and fondly exasperated. "He is this way all the time."

The boy looked down at his neatly bandaged leg and then back to Ducky. They stared at each other for a beat. And then, with a sly half-grin and a low voice, Gray spoke. He sounded . . . woozy. "If I knew what a difference coming to a pro made I'd a insisted all along. But Cop," he jerked a thumb back toward Cassie, "give her a bleeder and a scalpel and you better get out of the – "

He never did manage to finish what he was saying. The girl reached up mid-sentence and boxed him over the head. Gray grinned and swayed just enough for Ducky to see Cassie's face beyond, looking a bit crossly at the back of the boy's head. When she caught sight of the startled doctor she broke into a mischievous toothy grin, all warmth and youth, and life.

Ducky laughed. Longer and louder than the occasion called for, perhaps. But it felt good, and necessary, to push back those old veils of death, and all his ghosts. He climbed to his feet finally, smiling down at them both. "It has been my pleasure, I assure you. Cassandra, I shall forever be in your debt, you were an excellent medical partner in all of this. And I've already heard quite a bit about you, Gray, you understand. Rather fantastic tales. It is always nice to match a face to the stories."

Behind the boy Cassie had also gained her feet. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket, dialed and spoke only a low word before closing the contraption again and folding her arms over her chest to look down at Gray.

"Oh yeah? The legend spreading at NCIS?"

Gray looked between Ducky and Ziva. Gibbs had disappeared. Likely, Ducky thought, to empty a tube of Ben-Gay over his damaged knee. Sitting as he had for an hour must have been exceedingly uncomfortable for the man.

"Ah, well," Ziva said delicately. "_Legend_ may be overstating it. Somewhat. But our forensic scientist – her name is Abby – she has developed something of a . . . fascination."

Ducky snorted at that bit of understatement.

Gray frowned, searching his memory. "Abby . . . is that the cool one? Hol, uh, Kort said . . . there was a cool one."

"Hm," Ducky paused in packing away the tools of his trade. "That is interesting, given Abby's feelings for Agent Kort."

"Yeah?" Gray grinned. "She hates him, huh? He gets that kinda a lot."

"I'm sure," Ducky said warmly. And then looked up, frowning.

A car horn had sounded outside.

Gibbs reappeared instantly, both he and Ziva drawing their weapons as they moved toward the door.

"That's our ride," Cassie waved them down. "Come on, get up gimp." She reached down to wrap an arm under Gray's shoulders, only to pause under the force of both Gibbs' and Ducky's rather extreme response.

"Your _ride_?"

"Absolutely not!"

The girl froze, crouched by the boy's side. She looked surprised, and suddenly wary. Gray, for his part, rolled his eyes.

"What's the problem?"

Ducky huffed. "Young lady, you may leave, of course, if you wish. But you," he turned on Gray, towering over him as a man of Ducky's stature rarely towers over anyone. "You should not be moved after that procedure. I must insist that you be monitored. And I'm not sure I trust that you will reappear when it is required of you. That wound _will_ be properly cared for."

Gibbs lurked in the background and glared, a silent _what he said_.

"That is not necessary," Cassie said firmly. "I'll look after him."

"Cop," Gray said. "Go."

Cassie casually took hold of Gray's hand and held on, her gaze going from him to Gibbs to Ducky and finally back to Gray.

"It'll be easier. Anyway, Shorty says he's good for me."

"Shorty's a lunatic," she said sharply. "Just like you."

"Yeah. Well, Boss says he's prob'ly good for Shorts too."

Cassie looked at Gray intently, then back to the NCIS men standing over them. She was getting extremely tense. Gibbs found himself taking a half step back automatically.

Gray glanced up at them. "Give us a minute."

Ducky and Gibbs just looked at him, confused. Finally Ziva came to herself. "Oh. We will just – step into the kitchen."

She walked into the kitchen, making eye contact with both Gibbs and Ducky as she went, ensuring they would catch on and do the same. After a moment they followed her, looking intensely disgruntled at the idea of Gray going anywhere after they had labored over him so personally, and hurt for him, as she was sure they had. Ziva smiled to herself, warmed by them. Men who cared so freely, and yet deeply too. She felt lucky to know them, to have earned their care.

She had seen those looks before, of course. Those times she had been hurt in the line.

The two of them stood frowning and silent in the middle of the kitchen, arms over their chests, and twitched.

Fortunately, to Gray a minute was really just a minute, and Cassie appeared in the kitchen entrance very quickly. "He will stay," she said.

"Of course he will!" Ducky surged back into the living room. "Jethro, the couch is still the best in the house, is it? Give me a hand with him then."

But Cassie was glaring daggers at Gibbs, and he stood still.

"He's weak from blood loss. You know how he gets. Don't push drugs on him. And don't interrogate him."

He nodded. After a long hard stare she turned away, walking toward the door.

"Hey," Gibbs called after her. "You can stay if you want."

But the door was already closing behind her. Ziva strode to the window and watched as Cassie trotted to an SUV sitting at the curb, climbed into the passenger seat and was driven safely away.

Gibbs joined Ducky in hauling Gray up, holding him as he swayed. His breath stuttered as the shift in weight sent blood rushing down toward the hole in his leg, no doubt hurting like hell. Gibbs bent smoothly, pulling the kid's arm up over his shoulder and picking him up in a cradle carry, careful to keep the injured leg extended.

"Oh . . kay," Gray breathed. He was still, stiff as a board in Gibbs' arms. Ziva had already spread the sheet on the couch out over the cushions, and Gibbs lowered him to it a second later.

"My hero," Gray muttered.

"You need anything else?"

"No."

Ducky fussed over Gray while Gibbs joined Ziva at the door. "Should I stay?" she asked. "To keep watch?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Go home, get some sleep."

She cast one last look at Gray and left as Ducky pulled back from the couch and turned out the living room lights, admonishing him to rest. Gibbs watched the doctor hover silently over the still boy for a moment. This was the part where Duck would normally push some kind of narcotic if the patient was still conscious – a sleep aid at least.

Gibbs tipped his head toward the kitchen. "Give me a minute, Ducky."

The doctor patted Gray on the shoulder and retreated silently to the other room.

Gibbs walked over to stand next to Gray, looking down at him from the end of the couch. Moonlight poured in through the thin curtain, silvery eyes seeming to catch and kindle it.

The bravado was gone now, as was the kindness that Ducky won. The kid looked tired, totally exhausted. He let Gibbs stand there in the shadows and stare for a long minute before finally caving. Blood loss really did make him talkative.

"What?"

Well. Relatively talkative.

Gibbs thought it over. _What the hell is going on?_ probably wouldn't get him anywhere. He'd try a question he might actually get a response to first. The sidewinder approach. "Why do you call her Cop?"

The kid laughed, short and breathy and not really funny at all. "Jesus. He was right."

"Who's that?"

"Kort. Said you'd like her."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

The kid shifted slightly, propping himself up to a less vulnerable position. He seemed a little better off now than he had earlier. Gibbs wondered if some of his distress had been dread of the procedure itself. "Why do you think?"

Gibbs stood still and waited for a long moment, but Gray didn't budge from his silence.

"I do like her," he finally acknowledged. A prompt without an answer, just like he'd got from Gray.

The kid considered Gibbs as if trying to read him. It was strange – Gray hadn't ever bothered to read him before tonight, as far as Gibbs could tell. "Because you and Cop are alike," he finally supplied.

No answers to the first questions Gibbs asked. But maybe some answers to others. "Yeah? How so?"

"You're . . . noble." Kid didn't say it like it was a compliment. Gibbs heard an echo of Kort's sneer. _Such nobility._

"Righteous," Gray went on idly. "Upstanding. Virtuous. Moral. A do-gooder . . . "

Gibbs rolled his eyes and did a little _yeah yeah _wave of his hand.

" . . . All the hero crap."

"And you're not?"

"You think I'm noble, Gibbs?" Voice off-hand – the kid knew the answer already.

"No," he admitted.

Another patch of silence.

"You gonna ask the questions you actually want answers to?"

Oh, really? "You gonna answer em? When you won't even tell me where Cop comes from?"

Gray smiled, the look very cool, and let his eyes wander the room. "Some things you don't want to know."

Something gruesome then, probably. Gibbs really hoped she hadn't actually killed a cop. Even a really bad one. In fact he hoped she'd never killed anyone at all.

"You've read my file," Gibbs shrugged. "Now you're in my house. I think you want my protection but I don't really know enough about you to look out for you."

"Safer that way."

"Safer for who?"

Gray looked at him neutrally. "What's the problem? Afraid I'll murder you in your sleep?"

Gibbs returned the look, just as bland. "I think it's more likely you'd trank me to make your escape. I have observed a few things."

The kid shrugged. "Out of tranquilizers. Think you're safe."

"Wasn't my safety I was concerned about." He paused, looking for a crack in a brick wall. "You know, I thought I'd figured it out." Gibbs huffed softly and shoved his hands down into the baggy pockets of his jeans. Hoped vaguely it would help him to stuff down the frustration starting to bubble under the surface. It was a short road from frustration to anger, from anger to yelling. And hollering at the kid wasn't going to get him anywhere. "I thought you dragged me out of that camp to protect you. Maybe so you could have a cop on the inside, one who plays dirty. Maybe so you'd have someone to help you get back at whoever hurt you in that place. But protecting you – that's not it, is it?"

Gray looked amused, beneath the pain. "You think you play dirty?"

Gibbs ignored him. "That can't be it. Because you don't care what happens to _you._ If you did you would bring me in earlier. Before you get arrested, or beat-up. Or _shot_." He paused, but there was no reply. "Who're you really protecting, Gray?"

The kid's eyes on him were steady. Unconcerned. Like they weren't talking about his life here. Like a bullet hadn't missed his abdomen, his genitals, by a mere breath. A few inches, a .357. Gray'd almost been destroyed beyond repair.

"Cop's gonna have your ass if I tell her you were interrogating me."

Dodging. Dancing away like the butterfly boxer, still not saying a thing. The kid was Ziva all over again – the old Ziva.

"This isn't an interrogation."

"Yeah? What is it?"

Gibbs sighed and finally lowered himself down to the coffee table, sitting facing the couch. "You know, some people, when they're having a heart-to-heart," he waved a hand between himself and the kid, "they actually use words."

"Yeah, some people," Gray said cautiously. "I was told you're the strong silent type."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. The _strong silent type?_ Every single one of his wives had called him that. "Doesn't really sound like the kind of thing Kort would say."

The kid just cocked his head.

"Who else do we have in common?"

Gray pulled his t-shirt up again to wipe the sweat from his pale face. "Doesn't matter."

"Yeah, probably not." Gibbs put his head down and rolled his shoulders. "I've got Tylenol with codeine in it."

"Good for you."

Gibbs nodded, unsurprised. He sat quietly for a minute, sifting through new information, the picture clearer than it'd ever been before. Gray hadn't said anything much, as usual. But the last few hours told the agent plenty.

Gibbs was pretty sure he knew enough, now. If he wanted to he could break him.

"You going to sit there all night?"

Gibbs realized that Gray wouldn't be able to relax with him there. Before, in the jungle, the kid was never unarmed, and only ever slept with a gun between him and the world. But earlier tonight Gibbs had taken his only firearm, set it down on the far side of the room. A continent away.

There would be no watching this kid drift off, or waiting to see if he would.

Gibbs leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. Looking at them instead of Gray.

So far the distance between them had been like . . . respect. A show of trust on Gibbs' part. But the kid kept getting hurt. Gibbs felt like he was watching the wheels come off, just letting it happen. He needed to know more in order to do anything useful. But when he did ask a question he never got a straight answer. Not from the kid, and not from Kort, either.

If he pushed Gray might shut him down completely. Permanently. But so far doing nothing seemed just as dangerous.

Maybe it was time to take off the gloves.

* * *

><p><em>an: Stolen lines in this chapter from NCIS Season Six, "Dead Reckoning." A major contender for Best-Ever Kort Episode._

_**Kort**__: I respect that you're suspicious. Caution is an asset in our line of work. Trust is elusive at best._

_**Gibbs**__: No it's not, not between us. It's impossible. But I honor my debts._

_**Kort**__: Such nobility. Somewhat hollow, given your fallback position. You're not really sticking your neck out for me. Vance comes down on you, you're already thinking you've got the goods on him. Words are cheap. Actions speak louder. Or to put it in parlance you'd understand - measure twice, cut once._


	41. Heroes

**Chapter 41: Heroes**

He raised his eyes, met Gray's with resolve.

He'd run from almost every question Gibbs had ever asked. But Gray was injured now, weak, and couldn't walk away. Gibbs would push until he got what he wanted.

"You and Cassie. You two know each other from Colombia." It should have been a question, but Gibbs didn't ask it like one.

The kid smiled faintly, no humor in it. Gibbs could see that he understood. Gray was boxed-in, and Gibbs had run out of patience, and the kid knew it.

"You brought Cass up here with you, just like you brought Mateo. And the addict from the round up. I bet he got into dope the same way you did." Gibbs paused to study Gray's face. "Your - what, patrol leaders? commanders? - they hook you on it?"

No smile, now. Nothing funny about drugs. Not to an addict.

"They made you beg for it. Made you kill for it, didn't they?"

The boy across from him was expressionless, the eyes on Gibbs like smoky mirrors.

"How many more are there, Gray?"

The gaze flickered, and Gibbs knew he was right. That's what this was all about, had been from the beginning. There were _more_.

"This the famous gut?" Calm and light, like talking to Gibbs was a wrestling match, now that he couldn't run, and he refused to be pinned. "You guess, I give it away when you get one?"

To hell with it. Gibbs let his gaze go hard, his words slow, every one like a blow. "I hope to God you're better at protecting them than you are yourself."

He knew instantly that he'd nailed him.

"Sorry," Gray said finally. "No such luck."

Gibbs returned the empty stare, feeling his stomach twist. "Ask me for help."

"What do you think I'm doing here?"

"This isn't help!" He took a breath, reined it in. "This is clean up. Let me help you, Gray."

A sharp silence. And then, "You think you can do better, with your noble crusade?" Gray turned to face the window, the movement caged. "You can't help me, Gibbs. You're having too much fun playing war. Same as _them_. They'll come after everyone close to you. But you already know that - you just don't give a fuck. It'll be the same as when they came for your wife, and Macy and Bell," he taunted. Not dodging anymore. "Doesn't matter who gets killed along the way, who gets left behind. Was it even her idea to testify, or was that you? You make your own family into heroes?"

Gibbs waited out the silence. He'd pushed, pressed all the buttons, and got his reward. The FBI agents who had manhandled him didn't know what Gray feared, but Gibbs had a pretty good idea. Couldn't be more obvious, really - it was knowledge. Knowledge of Cassie, his friends, what had happened to him in Colombia. Insight into his life, into who he was. The kind that Gibbs had now, and just threw in his face.

The kid was angry.

"The Caleras are a bigger crew, better organized. They'll destroy everyone you ever met. They all get to die brave for you, huh?" A pause, and another hard smile, one sent out to the street. To the world. "That's fine. Get yourselves killed fighting them. But I don't believe in any of that shit, Gibbs. I don't want to be brave. And I think it's safer not to know you."

Gibbs pushed down the flare of old anger, shoved the past away effortlessly. He had played this game with far more furious prey than Gray. Himself, for one. "I'll back off of the cartel, if you prefer protection," he said flatly. "For you or for the others. I'll drop it."

The kid looked at him with something like surprise. Gibbs held his breath though a tense silence.

"Someone has to get them," Gray said, so low he might have just been talking to himself, and Gibbs had to lean in to hear it. And then from all those months ago, when they'd sat in the heat at that base, and Gibbs had talked about violence. About what it was worth, and what it wasn't. "Someone has to try. Law should be there, more than . . . people like me. Like you said."

People like me. Did he mean kids, like Cassie, or civilians like the workers from the fire? Or assassins and cartel fighters, like he must have been one of? Gibbs nodded slightly regardless. It wouldn't have been in his nature to sit back and let the threat go.

But the price of pursuing it couldn't be Gray's life.

Trouble was, the kid wasn't sure the two of them were on the same page. Sounded like he thought Gibbs would sacrifice him to get to the cartel - like he wasn't sure they were really on the same side. On Gray's side. Gibbs didn't know if he could convince him they were. But the odds felt better here than they ever had before. He leaned forward, reaching hard for the right words. "Good. But I can take on the cartel and help you out too, you know. I understand why you're cautious . . . "

Where were his parents? His family? Where was _Kort_? The people who should have protected Gray had betrayed him. For money, power. Maybe fear for their own lives.

The kid ignored him. He looked very young tonight, though, and that helped. Gibbs felt the lingering anger fade.

"But I'm a cop. It's my job to protect you. And I will never put anything above the people I'm sworn to protect. Not my own life. Not the lives of my team, either," he acknowledged. "Definitely not some cartel bust. I won't betray you, Gray."

Gibbs waited for that to settle. And then he moved on.

"Whatever you're doing, out in the Seventh or wherever you were tonight, it's going to get you killed. Or at least exposed." Same difference, probably. "And I can't allow that."

The kid still wouldn't look at him. Kept studying the shadowy sliver of street through the part in the curtains. "No, it's not," he said finally. "That's over."

Gibbs frowned, and pushed. "The one who died – you were out there for him?"

Gray hadn't been fighting with whoever was killed tonight, then. He'd been trying to protect them. And he had failed. But that meant . . .

Gibbs' voice carried the disbelief he didn't bother to hide. "And you're not going after whoever did it?"

No response.

But Gibbs was done with that. "I can track down the cell phone Cassie used from this location, Gray. Trace its earlier calls. Find the scene. Find the car that brought you here and track your movements. Did you even have time to dump the body? I can reconstruct what happened. I'll end up knowing more than you do about what went down tonight. Is that what you want?"

Gibbs sure as hell didn't want to go over the kid's head. Didn't want to make an enemy or a fugitive out of him. But he didn't make empty threats, either - he would do it if that was the only way of finding out what was happening, of keeping Gray safe. Even if it destroyed any hope of trust between them.

Gray's face was a mask, displaying nothing at all. No anger. Not even annoyance, or calculation. There was nothing.

Gibbs frowned. It felt wrong. Too blank, even for Gray. There was something _wrong_ here -

"There's no one to go after," the kid said.

_It was an accident . . . Gray didn't kill him . . . There's no one to go after. There's no one . . ._

Oh. Hell. He'd killed himself.

"Overdose?"

Gray didn't acknowledge him.

"I checked in at Phoenix House awhile back," Gibbs said slowly. "They told me the boy we called Alan McGee left after a week. Said he was pretty sick when he walked out. Was that him tonight?"

Silence.

"He a friend?"

Nothing.

But Gibbs knew he was. He pushed yet again, and thanked whoever was up there that he'd been born a bastard. "He a friend, Gray."

He waited, and after a long moment got a millimeter of a nod.

"So you got him out of Colombia but he didn't recover from the dope," Gibbs said slowly. "And you couldn't just let him go. He knew too much, didn't he? Knew all about you. Maybe about the others, too."

Silence then, that Gibbs couldn't read. "Dangerous for a drug addict to know your secrets," he probed.

Gray laughed softly. "Addicts are dangerous. Did you work that out all on your own? That's genius."

The sarcasm was just a little quick, the words a hair too fast. Beyond anger, it was the only rough patch so far in that rock-hard shell.

A hint of upset, maybe. Or nerves.

Gray had plenty of motive to simply kill off an addict who knew his past. But Gibbs didn't think he had. For one thing he doubted the kid would've been hurt if his intent was to kill. Protecting someone – that was far more likely to get you into trouble.

"He shot you accidently," Gibbs reasoned, still watching what he could see of Gray's face. "Because he was high. Maybe you were arguing about the fact that he was high. Wrestling for the drugs, or the gun. And when you were hurt he got upset, and overdosed."

Gibbs frowned. Or . . . "Or shot himself."

The look on the kid's face. An emotion, finally – it was grief.

Gibbs sighed. _This_ was what his gut had noticed. There'd been something off from the beginning tonight, something other than the physical pain. Something wrong. It was this.

It felt absurd to even ask. But. "You want to talk about it?"

The kid didn't move. Gaze on the window still, miles away. Gibbs had absolutely leveled him.

"What about the body, Gray?"

A long silence.

"Gray."

"I took care of him." Voice hard.

"Okay."

How the hell that was possible after Gray had been shot, Gibbs didn't know. But he didn't really need to know - the kid had never lied to him. If Gray said the body wasn't a problem, Gibbs believed him.

He rubbed his forehead and got to his feet. Pushing Gray into revealing what he had was necessary, he was sure of that. The entire situation was too volatile for Gibbs to continue operating completely in the dark.

Didn't mean it felt good.

"I'm sorry for your loss." He stood there for a moment, paused as he turned away. "You know, Kort said my . . . nobility rang hollow - "

Gray looked at him, finally. Young, and gutted. Gibbs sucked in a breath.

"Always does," Gray said harshly.

"No, kid," Gibbs said. "Not always." And finally left him alone.

**x**

Ducky was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. Gibbs flipped open his phone and called Palmer. The kid answered with "Um."

"Get up and get over to my house, Palmer. Now. Call me when you get here."

He snapped the phone shut and got far enough into Ducky's space to jerk the doctor out of his daze.

"Come on, Duck." He tapped his shoulder to get him moving and led the older man into the basement.

Ducky followed him down only to stop at the foot of the stairs, too agitated to follow through on actually stepping into the room.

"He won't sleep well," he said. "In fact I shall be surprised if he finds any rest at all."

That was nothing Gibbs didn't already know. He'd been shot before. Without morphine to help you along it didn't exactly induce a sleepy feeling, not unless you lost enough blood to pass out. And apparently the kid wasn't passing out.

"That isn't good for healing," Ducky muttered. He didn't say anything for awhile after that, just paced in aimless starts and stops around the far end of the basement.

Gibbs pulled down jars and a bottle of bourbon.

When Duck finally seemed to remember where he was and looked around for Gibbs the other man was sitting on a stool, watching him, an almost empty glass of amber liquid in one hand. The full one he'd poured for Ducky was still resting on the bench top.

Gibbs tipped his head toward the second glass and Ducky came to sit on a stool across from him, picking up the jar nudged his way.

"He going to have permanent damage in that leg?"

"No, not as far as I can tell. Perhaps some loss of feeling, but it shouldn't affect function."

So the kid would be okay. As okay as he had been before, anyway.

"You alright, Duck?"

Ducky nodded in a way that didn't seem to mean yes, really. "Do you know why I became a medical examiner, Jethro?"

He hadn't. But after tonight Gibbs could guess. "No."

"One too many boys like that one," Ducky said frankly. "Suffering. Now when they come to me at least they are at peace."

Gibbs nodded. He knew the ME had been in Vietnam during the worst years of the fighting there. But that was about all he knew.

They were quiet for awhile. Ducky finally raised his hand and sipped from the glass he was holding, only to grimace. "Damn this is foul." He scowled into the squat jar in his hand. "I remember now why I stopped drinking here."

"Bring your own if you don't like it," Gibbs muttered.

"Ah, but I did. Now where did it get to?" Duck stood and poked at the shelf devoted to paint stripper and liquor. "Unless they drank it all, the little - ah ha!"

He shoved an untouched bottle of bourbon aside to draw out the dusty Scotch that was hiding behind it. Then he pushed his full mug toward Gibbs. "Drink up, Jethro. I know you didn't enjoy that any more than I did, though you're too much of a stoic to actually express it."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow as if in protest, but went ahead and tipped the bourbon he'd poured for Ducky into his own glass. The doctor promptly replaced it with Scotch.

"I'm surprised you didn't just sneak him something Duck, if it bothered you that much. One round wouldn't make him a junkie."

_Why didn't you_, that meant.

He looked at Gibbs seriously. "You have seen the scarring on his arms?"

"Yeah."

Gibbs had noticed Ducky looking them over too, when he shot the kid up with antibiotics.

"Extensive. And some of it quite old, which means he was an addict when he was truly a child, Jethro. That is –" Ducky huffed. "In such a case the narcotic becomes the body's default, do you see? As he grew his mind grew in tandem with its presence."

Ducky looked at Gibbs as if this had actually answered the question. Gibbs raised both eyebrows in protest that time.

"Yes, well, the practical implication is an increasingly poor probability of recovery – the rate of relapse grows as the age of the addict descends, not that the rate of recovery is really very good at any age." Ducky's voice grew easier as he warmed to his scientific subject. "Much of the brain's development when we are young is permanent, you see, or at least we think it is, which makes drug use in the young particularly risky, and learning to live without it as an adult difficult to say the least. And yet there are those who recover, as Gray seems to have. Of course, there is so much we don't know about the mind."

The doctor swirled the Scotch in his glass, lost in thought, before turning to consider Gibbs seriously. "He is perhaps being overcautious, but I thought it would be a worse cruelty to taunt his body with its addiction. You saw his threshold for pain," he said lowly. "It is extreme. Likely due in part to the brutality of detoxing. He has good reason for caution. You must never allow anyone to give him something that could trigger a relapse, Jethro. Not if the boy doesn't want it."

Ducky fixed his eyes on Gibbs, waiting for the promise. Gibbs grunted something that sounded like agreement.

They stared at the walls for a minute or two.

"Do you know if his young friend was also exposed to narcotics?"

"Be surprised if she wasn't."

Ducky nodded solemnly. "A lovely girl. And quite bright too, isn't she? Rather well-versed in trauma care."

"I noticed."

"Cassandra." Ducky rolled the name out like a red carpet. "To shine, or to shine upon men, in the ancient Greek. Do you suppose that is her real name?"

Gibbs grinned into his bourbon. Cassie. Cass. Cop. "Probably not."

"Hm. According to myth young Cassandra was a Trojan princess to whom the gods gave the gift of prophesy. Do you know the tale?"

Gibbs shook his head.

"Cassandra brilliantly foretold the fall of Troy, but no one believed her. Naturally, after a prolonged war, the city fell just as she predicted. To escape the invaders Cassandra sought refuge in the temple of a goddess, a sacred place. But so many years of war had stripped away all the rules of civilization from men, as is generally the case, I suppose. A warrior - Ajax - entered the temple, raped her there and dragged her off as his prize." Duck paused, and added, as if in afterthought, "Of course the goddess of the temple was enraged by the transgression and eventually killed Ajax. Impaled him on a pillar of fire."

Ducky blinked, came back to himself. "Poetic justice, hm?"

Gibbs turned his eyes to his tools and drained his second jar of bourbon. "Nice story, Duck."

Ducky watched him closely. "Is it?"

Gibbs shook his head, turning the empty jar in his hand. "I don't know anything about her."

"Except that she is exceedingly wary, as is he. And she was with him there?"

Gibbs nodded.

"And so you also know that she was caught up in a most uncivilized conflict. Women and children indeed. Well," Ducky sighed, "if she was plied with narcotics I can only hope her recovery from addiction was staged after she received that burn. The original injury must have been quite severe."

Gibbs leaned an elbow on the workbench, shoving the jar away. He reached up abruptly to rub a hand over his mouth, his face. "Yeah."

They were quiet again.

"He tried to reassure me," Ducky said musingly. "None of you mentioned his kindness. I expected to find the boy a good deal more surly, if not a total brute."

Gibbs shifted. "Never saw that kid before tonight, Duck."

"Ah, but you have only known him in rather hostile environments, haven't you? So he acted the tough man and you fell for it?" The doctor's surprise was clear. Gibbs didn't fall for much.

"It's not an act," Gibbs said quietly. "He's a killer."

"Perhaps." Gibbs could feel Ducky looking him over, evaluating him. "Among other things."

Gibbs thought back to that clearing, when Gray killed for them in one moment, and held a gun to Dinozzo's throat in the next. His protection as fierce and unpredictable as his easy violence. So far, luckily, Gibbs' team had earned protection. But Gibbs was fairly certain that's all it was - luck.

Gray hadn't protected Gibbs or his people because he thought it was the right thing to do. After all - _I don't believe in that shit_.

Except for saving Ziva, which Gibbs would bet had been pure impulse, everything the kid had done for them was part of a bargain, a deal. Something earned, or that Gibbs and his team would have to pay for. _Gray will collect_, Rodge had said.

But there had been that impulse. For Ziva, a woman he barely knew. He'd refused to endanger the Rangers from the base, too, even when he was wounded. There was Cassie, with her absolute faith in Gray. And the addict, the one the kid had tried to protect . . . that didn't look calculated. That was friendship. Family. Loyalty.

It was fucking noble.

"I don't have a handle on him yet," he admitted.

"Of course," Ducky mused, and glanced at Gibbs. "He is still becoming what he will be. No doubt the men he meets at this time will have a great influence on him."

Gibbs shook his head, eyes still fixed on that empty jar. "I think he's already met his influential men," he said dryly.

"He would want you to think so," Ducky smiled. "The young are so determined to appear grown."

The doctor took on a faraway look. "You know Jethro, in one aspect at least all of the really wounded boys who came to me were the same in the end. I'd wager the one upstairs is no different."

Gibbs looked at him.

"They were afraid, whether they looked it or not. They wanted their mothers," Ducky said slowly. "Or their wives. To go home. But they hardly ever asked for those things. Not until they were out of their minds." Ducky paused, and continued shrewdly, "Though I suppose you know most of what there is to know about boys in pain."

Gibbs didn't react to that. Just sat there, looking bleak.

Talk did not soothe this man. But there were other things that would.

"You'll get who did this to him, Jethro." Ducky's voice was more command than reassurance. He'd been an officer in the RAMC, after all.

"It was an accident," Gibbs said tiredly. "The kid who shot him is already dead anyway."

"Not that," Ducky said dismissively. "The drugs."

Gibbs nodded, the movement slow with resolve. "Working on it."

Ducky left off examining Gibbs then, who looked a good deal better already. Instead he considered his mug of Scotch as if it held the meaning of life. "He's not going to be here when it comes time to change that dressing, will he."

"I doubt it."

The doctor finished his drink then, and when Palmer called, Gibbs walked him out.

**x**

He slept on the cot in the basement until something woke him up.

There was someone in his house. Not just the kid – someone he didn't know.

He was up the stairs with his gun drawn in time to level it at the head of a man standing in the front hall. The guy stilled, but didn't seem overly startled. He was big and young, late teens maybe. Short dark hair. Dark eyes. No visible weapon.

"You better not shoot my ride, Gibbs." Gray, sitting up now on the couch.

He lowered the pistol slowly, keeping his eyes on the intruder, and pointed at the door. "Wait outside."

The guy glanced over Gibbs' shoulder at Gray and walked out when he got a nod. Gibbs put the gun down on the coffee table and fell on the couch next to the kid, mindful not to jostle the leg.

He reached up a hand in an effort to rub the sleep from his face and peered at his watch. It was 0630, still dark out. He'd been asleep for less than two hours. "Getting an early start?"

Gray's face was incredibly pale, slack with exhaustion. His body seemed even smaller than usual.

He didn't respond.

"So this is how it's gonna be, huh? I'm just supposed to chase after you till you get yourself killed?"

"I told you it's over."

"This one, this time, yeah," Gibbs said, voice still rusty from sleep. "Expect me to believe you'll stay out of trouble from now on?"

"You think I go looking for it?"

Honestly curious. Of course the kid was digging into him too, now. Looking to read him.

"I think you could use some help," Gibbs said seriously.

There was a long pause, and then, "Your doctor just saved my leg. I give you some reason to think I need more than that?"

Other than nearly getting himself killed? Gibbs turned to study his profile. "No. But no one's that hard to read. If you don't have backup you feel alone. You feel alone and you find yourself in a tough spot, you get desperate. You take more risks. You end up in situations like this one." He waved a hand at the kid's stiff leg, now encased in an old pair of Gibbs' sweats.

Gray's head tipped back a bit, his eyes drifting to the top of the shelves. "I read your file, remember? You just described you."

Gibbs actually laughed. "Yeah, used to be. My team doesn't really let me get away with that anymore, though." Gibbs relaxed into the couch, leaning subtly away. No threat as he pressed. "You can talk to me," he said lightly. "Even Shorty thinks I'm good for you."

Gray snorted. "You don't know who Shorty is."

"Nope. Sounds like someone who cares about you, though."

Gray was quiet. The kid had no tells, as far as Gibbs knew. No self-soothing gestures, no nervous tics. But after a few moments he seemed to somehow hold himself stiller. "Don't know what you want me to say. You know what happened."

Gibbs scratched a stubbly cheek. "I know you've lost people before." The fire. "Why's this one hitting you so hard?"

Gray's eyes darted his way, but that was it. There was no surprise. The mask was seamless – but surprise was what that look must have been. The fact that the kid showed nothing, that he never showed anything, was meaningless. What had Duck said? They all cried, in the end, but only when they were out of their minds . . .

What the kid clearly didn't understand was how the older man had known. How he'd seen the grief buried under all that blank.

Gibbs nodded once and tipped his hand. "I understand why you didn't want drugs. But you – " _could've screamed_, _cried, reacted_ " – took it like you wanted it," he sighed. "I saw you deal with pain when you were stabbed, I know how it should've looked."

That's how I know. I _know_ you now.

Gibbs kept the relaxed pose even as he braced himself. He'd shown that the kid couldn't really hide from him, not anymore. Wasn't 'safe' from him.

Most people, when they feel exposed, will hide. Hide their eyes at the very least. Gray looked right at him for a good long time. Like the best defense was a good offense, even in this.

The silence stretched. And then. Well. Gray talked in his own way.

"Your team . . ." The kid's eyes left his, wandering toward the kitchen this time. "They don't care? About the stuff you did?"

Gibbs shook his head, not following.

"About how you offed Hernandez."

What the hell.

"I don't really know," Gibbs said shortly. And he didn't care, either. Hernandez, his family - it was ancient history. Long gone.

They sat there in silence for another minute. And then Gray shifted, about to get up. To leave.

"We haven't talked about Hernandez," Gibbs said slowly, and Gray stilled. So, yet another bargain. "But we've worked together for a long time," he shrugged. "They know who I am."

"What's that mean?" Gray said sharply. Confusion there. "They don't care because - it's work? And you're the boss?"

Gibbs studied him carefully. "What makes you think they don't care?"

Now the kid was incredulous. "They came for you."

"Maybe they forgave me."

Gray frowned, and looked away. As if he didn't know those words, and needed time to puzzle them out.

"What's this about, Gray?"

The kid shook his head, still preoccupied. "Those scouts you killed," he said awhile later, voice low. "They didn't like it."

It was Gibbs' turn to frown.

"The guards you executed," Gray pressed, "Outside the camp. They didn't - your team, Tony and Ziva," he paused, as if searching for better words. And finding none. "I thought they didn't like it."

Ah. Gibbs relaxed back into the couch. "They didn't. Those men were subdued and unarmed. Killing them was wrong."

The kid looked at him silently for a minute. "So why did you?"

"Instinct," Gibbs said evenly.

Kid hadn't expected that. His look turned suspicious. "If you left them alive they'd have gone back to the camp. A patrol could've tracked us."

"And if we'd taken prisoners they would have slowed us down," Gibbs agreed. "Maybe compromised the base, if we actually made it that far with them. Killing those two men probably kept us safe. Might have kept a lot of people on our side safe."

Gray nodded, like he already knew that. "So - " he frowned, tentative now. "You explained it like that? And they . . . forgave you?"

God. "I didn't have to explain it to them," Gibbs said, almost gently. "Once they had a chance to think about it they understood why I did it, even though none of us liked it."

Gray just looked at him. Lost.

"They have a lot of training, that helps. And experience in violent situations. We have counselors on staff." Not that the team ever really made use of the ones at NCIS, as far as Gibbs knew. "They're close, so they can talk to each other if something's bothering them. Sometimes they come talk to me, or to Ducky. That helps with the tough stuff."

Gibbs hesitated. They were adults, too, of course. And this right here was the reason anyone with a conscience kept children away from war. Not that pointing that out was going to help Gray. "What happened when we were captured by the larger patrol was more unusual for us. Harder for the team to deal with. We got through it by - " Gibbs paused. Well. There'd been screaming. Also hysterical rage, throwing things, an obsessive, career-altering crusade, intimidation in elevators, going to bars and getting wasted, sitting in a basement and getting wasted . . . " - talking it through with each other," he said vaguely. "When we needed to."

Gray sat absolutely still, staring at the wall, and Gibbs somehow got the sense he'd put his foot in it.

"Couldn't get there faster." The kid cleared his throat. "Thought she was okay."

Gibbs blinked. "She is. Gray, we were - " _horrified_ " - upset that you were hurt."

" . . . You didn't do anything." Cautious again.

"Yeah. That was the problem."

Utter confusion.

"You were there because of us. Dinozzo and David were there because of me," Gibbs reminded him. "We all felt responsible. We argued about that, but eventually we got over it. Kid . . . " Gibbs frowned. "Is someone giving you grief about what you did for us?"

Gray stared at Gibbs like he was some kind of equation.

Right. Gibbs' question time came later, apparently. "It was just a bad situation, Gray. Nobody's fault. Afterwards we had to accept that, let it go. It took some time."

"So, with the patrol - your people were mad cause they were there for you? We were there for you?"

"No," Gibbs said softly. His own disbelief coming through. They _should_ have been angry for that, but - "They weren't mad at me at all."

Not about the patrol, anyway. The kid was too perceptive. And still staring at him. "They felt . . . " Soul-sucking shame probably wasn't the right thing to say. " . . . bad about putting you in danger. I was pissed at them for putting themselves in danger. And we were all upset that we couldn't protect you. It rattled us."

Gray nodded, as if that made sense. "Knew you'd be pissed. Kort said you probably wouldn't want to get rescued."

It was like they were speaking totally different languages.

"What I didn't want was for you or my team to be put in danger on my account," Gibbs said. "Or for anyone innocent to get hurt."

Gray threw him a dismissive, _same difference_ look.

Gibbs sighed. "It's hard to explain," he muttered. "We don't have to do that often, luckily. Like I said, we know each other."

Gray nodded, like he understood that one too. "Yeah. Same for Diego and me," he said flatly. "He understood, so . . . never had to explain."

Gibbs had the distinct feeling he wasn't awake enough to follow this conversation. But he'd just answered a load of questions. Maybe it was bargain fulfillment time, which meant -

_Why's this one hitting you so hard_ . . .

"Diego's the boy who died?"

Gray watched the snow float down outside the window, white-gray flakes in a pale gray morning. "Yeah."

How much information had he bought? Gibbs watched Gray watch the snow. "He was forced to kill as well?"

A nod. Sort of.

"What was he like?"

Gibbs imagined he could hear the individual snowflakes as they ran aground.

"Like me I guess, some," Gray finally said. "We were together all the time, since we were kids. Really young," he clarified.

Gibbs waited.

"He was different though. Diego . . . " The silence went on so long Gibbs wasn't sure that Gray would pick it back up. " . . . He was funny. Like, everything was funny. He laughed all the time. Was like nothing touched him. He was just . . . tough, when things weren't good. And then when they were, he was happy."

"What happened?"

Gray tilted his head. Down toward his arm.

"He couldn't stop?"

"No, he could. He quit using for awhile, when we all did. He fucking did it easier than anyone. You ever been addicted to anything?"

"No." Gibbs grinned. "Coffee."

Gray laughed. _Laughed_.

"Yeah. Well, kicking heroin was . . . hard. For me anyway. This is nothing," he waved a hand at his leg. Still squinting out at the snow. "But we did it."

"So what happened?"

Gibbs watched as Gray's breathing became oddly relaxed, only noticing it because he was sitting so close, watching so carefully. It took him a moment to realize the kid was making an extra effort to control it. And it was _working_. Gibbs studied him, fascinated. It was like an anti-tell.

"Don't know."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "No idea?"

"I don't . . . think you - " Gray glanced at him doubtfully.

Like Ziva and Abby and McGee - Gibbs sighed. Not this again. "Try me."

"I really don't know," he said stiffly.

Gibbs waited him out. Hoped he'd bought more.

"It's harder, I guess. Than we thought it would be. Here, I mean." The kid ground it out, like the words burned.

Gibbs frowned. "To stay clean?"

"No. Always knew that would suck."

Gibbs waited, eyes on Gray expectantly.

"It's just . . . everything . . . it's different. Cold," he said. "I forgot how cold it gets. And . . . " he tilted his head up to look at the leaden sky. "Fucking . . . gray."

Gibbs frowned.

He _forgot_?

"Where're you from, Gray?"

"Huh?"

"Where were you born."

The kid shrugged. "Brooklyn."

Gibbs closed his eyes. Opened them again. "Want to tell me what the hell you were doing in that jungle?"

"Grandma in Colombia got sick. Mom took me with her to say goodbye. We got . . . stuck."

"When was that?"

A frown. "Long time. I was six, I think."

"Your mom here now?"

Very, very still. "We got separated, down there."

"How long since you had contact?"

Gray stared at the snow.

"Long time?"

"Six years."

She was lost, then.

"What about your dad?"

Back to the snow. "He's dead."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. Gray seemed to sense it, somehow, and turned back to him. "What?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Just wondered who he is. Thought he might be part of the cartel."

Gray stared at him. "He was. But he's dead now."

Gibbs didn't think Gray was lying. But someone else - Kort, even - could have lied to Gray. "You're sure?"

"Yeah." The kid dismissed him. "He's dead." Very sure. Gray smiled, cold and far away. "Been dead six years."

Well. Scratch El Diablo off the list, then. Small favors.

Back to the present. "So, you think Diego relapsed because he was homesick? On top of the rest of it?"

Gray ran slow fingers over the old afghan draped across the back of the couch. "Told you I don't know."

Gibbs waited him out, again. Just because the kid didn't want to think about it didn't mean he didn't know. How could he not?

"Diego'd never been anywhere else before. Maybe that's . . . I don't know." Stress in his voice now, even though his body was calm.

"Okay," Gibbs said softly.

Gray didn't seem to hear him. "One day he just – "

He sat so still, all but his eyes. They wandered all over the window, the room, counterpoint to his lifeless voice. "He gave up I guess."

Gibbs nodded.

"I asked him. Why, you know. A hundred times. And he - I don't think he knew either." Stress had turned to something else now. Dread. Fear. "He didn't know."

A pause.

"I thought it would be easier. Once we got here. But it's just . . . different."

Gibbs smiled sadly. When he was away, deployed, coming back here was all he could think about. And then one haul he finally made it back only to find it wasn't the same. He'd gone on, somehow, and so had life here, and being home couldn't bring him back to the person he used to be. Back to the person whose home this was. That person was gone.

They were quiet.

"We used to run, you know?" The eyes left the bookshelves, bore into Gibbs'. Steady again. "Hit fast, run fast. Outrun them – that's how we . . . did it. Survived."

The kid's stillness was really odd. It gave his words more power. Gibbs wondered if this was part of why people usually responded to _his_ words. Some of his training had culled away unnecessary movement.

"You can't run from this. It's always there. It got him . . . He's dead." Shock, maybe.

_I don't know - you can't run - it got him._

Duck was right, of course. Underneath it all the kid was scared. But not of bullets, or even the cartel, really.

Gibbs broke into the quiet after a minute passed with nothing more. "Sounds like you had a lot in common, shared a lot. But that doesn't mean you'll give up like Diego did. And if you ever do," Gibbs said slowly, "there'll be people there for you. People who can help you, if you let them. Me or Ducky. My team. Even Kort - "

"No. Not doing that again," Gray said. Voice hard, all that fear a memory now. "Addicts are dangerous, Agent Gibbs. I'd do the same as Diego, just faster. Try not to shoot any friends along the way." He turned his head toward the window. "Hey, Tomas!"

The door swung open instantly and the big guy was in his living room again, snow covering his shoulders, soft flakes melting into his hair.

Gibbs stayed where he was as Gray reached up a hand and Tomas seized it, hauling him up and slinging an arm around his waist in one movement.

They were out the door a second later, gone.

Gibbs' house was always quiet. But when the door swung shut and the car outside started up and rumbled away the quiet felt sudden, somehow. Thick. He got up slowly from the couch, ignoring the few stray flakes of snow under his feet, and headed upstairs. It was time to get ready for work.


	42. Satellites

**Chapter 42: Satellites**

As it turned out Gibbs didn't get a chance to track down Kort and vent his wrath the next morning. He was on his way to the Navy Yard when AK called in the tip they'd been waiting for. Their mole had landed a meeting with a supplier high enough in the organization to have ties back to Colombia. Maybe even a base there.

They didn't have a name for the supplier. No one knew anything about the guy's contacts abroad. There were no rumors. There was no front. Not even a pack of lies. There was nothing.

It was the lack of information that made Gibbs like him for a Calera courier.

The meeting was going down that afternoon in a diner outside Baltimore. He called the team to Abby's lab to plan the op.

"So," McGee said. "Stakeout the diner and wire our guy?"

"If this meeting is really with a high-level operative a wire will be discovered," Ziva pointed out. "Our informant will be killed and the supplier will go underground. What about agents inside? We can get a photograph of the contact, perhaps identify him that way."

Gibbs noticed she didn't say which agents should be placed inside.

"We can make the bust early if it looks like AK's in trouble," McGee protested. "Without a wire we won't have sound. Whatever happens will be useless in court."

Ziva's eyes slid over to Gibbs'. There was a long pause.

"I don't think there'll be any safe way to get sound," Gibbs said. "The best we can hope for is identifying and tracking the supplier."

Abby frowned. "But if this mystery man operates from a base in Colombia he might not even be here long enough to pin him to anything else in the States. It could be years before he meets with AK again, if he ever does."

Gibbs nodded, not looking at any of them. "Those are the breaks, Abs. We'll just get what we can. Do you still have that – " he waved a hand. "That radioactive water you used on Gray?"

"The isotope? Sure," she frowned. "What for?"

"Send a bottle to AK – I want him to glow in the dark by the time he goes into this meeting. Have an agent drop it at a messenger service, somewhere generic, and then send the package on to him at his house. Make sure it can't be linked back to us."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll move him? And check for locators . . . We can have a team outside photographing anyone entering and exiting, another in a car ready to follow."

Gibbs nodded. It wasn't lost on him that Tony hadn't specified which team.

He rested his hands on the shiny surface of Abby's stainless steel lab table and leaned over it, letting the table take his weight. His agents stared as the seconds ticked by.

It wasn't a pose they saw often, but everyone in the room recognized it. This was what Gibbs looked like when he was struggling.

The lab became still as they waited for him to push into action, to give orders. But he didn't. He didn't move at all, because he wasn't really there.

_They'll come after everyone close to you . . . You know that. You just don't give a fuck. It'll be the same as when they killed -_

_It'll be the same._

_It'll be the same._

"Okay," Tim said finally. "Abby, you have the cameras? I'll get the truck – "

It damn well _would_ be the same, if he hadn't changed. The kid was right about that.

But the thing was, Gibbs had changed.

Once upon a time he would have done this on his own, accepted the risk, and gladly. But he honest to god wasn't sure anymore that he'd be able to shake his team. He could feel them looking at him. Feel the damp heat of the jungle and his own fierce, dark terror. Not for himself. For _them_. His team, stumbling along in front of him. Tony crumpling under a punch, out of his mind against that truck. Ziva's head, hitting metal, their pale faces in that debrief -

No. Unacceptable. That would never happen again. Not for him.

"None of us is going anywhere near that diner, Tim," Gibbs broke in.

McGee frowned. "Huh?"

Gibbs looked up just in time to catch Tony and Ziva exhaling in relief. His heart stuttered.

"No one who can be traced back to me is going to be involved in this op," he said. "Not on the ground. They know who I am. They find anyone connected to me sniffing around one of their top men and you'll all be dead inside a week. Or they'll go underground," Gibbs nodded at Ziva, who'd called it, "and we'll lose them."

He pushed away from the table. "I'll arrange for surveillance from outside the agency. Abby, you set up that trace. McGee, I need Kort on the phone yesterday. Find him."

Gibbs turned to leave.

"Um, boss," McGee shot a look at Ziva. "I heard Kort was out of town . . . ?"

Gibbs paused long enough to pull his phone from his pocket and toss it to McGee. "He's the unknown number six days back – Saturday. The call was made from Germany. If you can't trace him before the meeting at the diner then get me his boss at the CIA." Gibbs turned on his heel and walked out of the lab.

McGee looked down at the phone in his hand. "But - giving up the op?" To some strange team? It was unimaginable. Not to mention - "But if we don't have sound or an agent in the diner we won't even have a reliable testifying witness."

Tony and Ziva exchanged a look.

"He was talking to Kort six days ago," Tony said grimly. "You know what that means."

Abby's eyes traveled back and forth between the two of them. "What does that mean?"

"We weren't working on anything near CIA jurisdiction six days ago, Abby," Tony said.

"But both Kort and Gibbs expected that we eventually would," Ziva put in. "They have been in touch, in cahoops, waiting for the right opportunity."

"Cahoots," Tony said. "They absolutely have."

"So, what you're saying is . . ." Abby faltered. "All this drug bust stuff we've been doing . . . you're saying we're not going to trial with it. Any of it? Is that what you're saying?"

The four of them looked at each other.

"I do not think that a court of law is part of Gibbs' plan for this cartel, no," Ziva said.

"This is prep work, isn't it," Tim said, voice low. "But not to arrest them. For an op like he did before. To assassinate them."

Tony and Ziva cast him long looks before they turned and walked out of the lab. Tim moved to follow, detouring at the last moment to give Abby a one armed hug. She hugged him back, and then he was gone, and the lab was quiet again.

Abby took a deep breath. Then she turned up her music and focused on mixing up a bottle of water that would make the drinker light up like a Christmas tree – one imported from Chernobyl.

Gibbs took the elevator directly up to Vance's office and explained what he needed. Untraceable surveillance, fast.

The meet at the diner was at 1700. By 1530 surveillance was in place, monitoring anyone coming and going, the team hooked into communications with MTAC via satellite. Photos began relaying back almost immediately. The team gathered in front of the enormous screen to watch the images as they streamed in.

"Who are these people," Tony complained. "Do they even have undercover experience?"

"They're a Special Ops team, Dinozzo," Gibbs said absently. "Usually based in the Far East. They've got all sorts of experience."

"If they are spotted and identified?" Ziva asked.

"Abby worked with Vance on that. She said as far as she could tel l these guys don't have real identities. All that exists is a pile of ready-made bogus ID's," McGee spoke up from the desk where he was wrestling with several different tracing programs at once. "Their latest fake backgrounds were released into State and Federal databases two hours ago."

At 1630 McGee handed Gibbs a cell phone.

"I couldn't find him, Boss," he said apologetically. "This is his boss. Uh, Kort's boss, I mean."

Gibbs brought the phone up to his ear. "What do you want me to call you?"

"My name is David Holdner, Agent Gibbs. I understand you need something from me?"

Gibbs recognized the voice. It was the supervisor from their CIA debriefing.

"NCIS is following a lead and we may require your resources to keep up with it. This is Kort's usual area but I haven't been able to track him down."

"Agent Kort is expected to return next week."

"This lead will be in play in thirty minutes, Holdner," Gibbs said shortly.

"What do you need?"

"Satellite."

"Where?"

"Here. And wherever the lead goes, if he decides to travel."

There was a long pause. Gibbs waited. Some agency or another would have satellite coverage in place over the DC area at all times. The question was whether Holdner had enough clout to get real-time access to it at such short notice.

"Agent Gibbs, I'm going to give you a number." Gibbs snapped his fingers for McGee and brought him in close enough to hear. "Call it if you need coverage. Your name will work as authorization for the next twelve hours. The number is this area code, 607-5781."

McGee nodded. "Got it," he mouthed.

"Good luck, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs closed the phone and McGee turned to move back to the desk he'd been working at.

"Hey!" Gibbs reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "You call it in the second they move him out of that diner, and you use my name, not yours. You got me McGee?"

McGee's name did not need to appear on any logs involving this op.

"Yes boss."

"Good. Now bring up AK on that tracing program. I want to admire Abby's Christmas tree."

AK walked into the diner at 1700 and sat in a booth. There was grainy video feed from the Special Ops team, coming out of a tiny camera across the restaurant. At 1710 another figure sat in the booth.

"Dinozzo, McGee! I want an ID."

"On it." Tony went through the recent photos of people entering the diner, pulling up the figure in the booth and feeding it to McGee.

The Special Ops cover in the diner informed them that the new man ordered a cup of coffee. Then the new man and AK talked for several minutes.

At 1726 they left the diner.

Rush hour.

"McGee!"

McGee was already on the phone.

A voice came through the link with their Special Ops team. "Target is leaving the diner with unknown . . . target is in a white Dodge Charger four-door, Virginia license plate Echo Kilo November 628 . . . target is moving south on McCormick . . . turning right onto Lafayette Avenue. Southwest on Lafayette . . ."

They watched the blue dot move steadily through a map of suburban Baltimore. Gibbs instructed the Special Ops cover to stay well back, but close enough to move in again if AK and the contact parted ways. "Roger that . . . We have lost visual contact . . . we have regained visual contact, target is steady on Lafayette . . . pulling onto Thruway 66, westbound . . . "

Gibbs glanced at McGee and decided yelling wasn't going to speed anything up. The agent was talking on the phone to whoever had picked up at the number the CIA supervisor had given them, his hands a blur over the three keyboards in front of him.

Seven minutes after AK walked out of the diner satellite coverage replaced the map of DC behind the blue dot. McGee slumped back, sighing with relief.

"I want that ID, McGee!" Gibbs yelled.

"Boss, the car is a rental out of Dulles under the name John Casey . . . pulling up the photo ID," Dinozzo said. He and Ziva were hovering over the shoulder of one of the techs, both turning as one to glance between the picture of the man driving the Charger and the driver's license photo that came up. "Photo matches the contact, boss," Tony said, surprised.

"I want – "

"Everything there is to know on John Casey. On it." Tony turned back to muttering instructions to the tech.

Twenty minutes later the car moved off the thruway and onto a local route. As the car drove out of DC traffic and the satellite coverage held true Gibbs instructed the surveillance team to back off. They were too exposed on the emptier roads. The team complied, waiting in the wings in case Gibbs needed them to close back in.

Fifty minutes after AK and the supplier contact left the diner the sun had set, they'd shifted to a different satellite, and most of the image was dark. But Abby's blue dot was still bright. The car AK was in turned onto a private road, approaching an area glowing with long rows of thin lights. "That's an airport," Gibbs said. "Where are they?"

"Walnut Hill Airport," McGee read off the screen in front of him. "I"m pulling flight manifests."

The car stopped near a small plane. The two figures inside got out and were greeted by a third, then entered the aircraft.

"It's too dark to read the tail numbers, boss," McGee said tersely.

"Should we call the airport to get identification?" Ziva asked.

"No. Whoever this guy is he could have people on the inside there," Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "Get me Kort's supervisor, McGee."

AK exited the plane alone half an hour later. They watched as the lights in the rented Charger came on and he drove away. The plane began moving immediately, taxiing down the runway and lifting into the air.

Gibbs and his team cleared out of MTAC not long after.

Satellite coverage of the plane, along with discreet observation of its occupants wherever it touched down again, had been secured through CIA Boss. Over the next hours and days they followed the jet to a private airfield outside of Denver, then LA, Houston, and Atlanta.

Two weeks passed. And then Kort came back.

**x**

The team was in the field that morning.

When they stepped out of the elevator Kort was leaning against Gibbs' desk, talking into his cell phone. Standing in their empty bullpen like he was lord of the manor.

At least he wasn't sitting in the boss's chair.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dinozzo, of course.

Kort ignored him totally, focusing instead on Gibbs. "I need to talk to you."

Anger punched through Gibbs like a fist, just at the sight of the man, at the sound of Kort's voice. He was still pissed about the kid who had been left to bleed on his porch, and not-cry on his living room floor.

Gibbs brushed past him, sitting down in his chair and leaning over to grab the old report forms. He was pretty sure he was the only agent in the building still filling them out by hand, but Processing accepted the handwritten along with the computerized ones, so what did he care? He wanted to file his field report before checking in on the plane's progress - they still hadn't gotten a visual ID on it.

Kort just stood there. Staring at him.

"So talk," Gibbs said. He kept his eyes on the form in front of him and half-heartedly shoved down his temper.

But as far as Gibbs could tell the CIA Agent used Gray for information and then left him to twist in the wind, off the grid and without support. No concept of the kind of help he _should_ have. If Kort was the only one who could get Gray medical attention without raising red flags in the system then Kort damn well should have stayed around to make sure the kid would have it. That was the least he should have done.

"Without an audience, Gibbs."

Gibbs stared at the form and began filling in the mindless, general info required at the top. He didn't need his glasses for that bit - after almost twenty years of field reports he could do the generic part blind.

Unfortunately it didn't require any real mental focus, either.

If Kort was going to use the kid like a partner then he should at least be a real partner. Should have been there when Gray was trying to help Diego, and then when he lost his friend. If Kort wasn't up to protecting Gray, if he was too busy to_ bother_ looking out for him, then maybe Kort should be the one to hold the kid down next time he got shot.

"Say what you have to say and get out, Kort."

Tony was watching with a sort of gleeful fascination, McGee and Ziva with slightly more concern. Gibbs was _pissed_. And he was becoming more pissed before their eyes.

Kort didn't seem to care about the boss's incendiary mood, or question it. He hesitated, then actually glanced around and lowered his voice, leaning in to reluctantly say what he'd come to say. He talked to the top of the boss's head, as Gibbs was by all appearances too busy chopping through his paperwork to spare the man a glance.

"I've flipped one of his lieutenants."

Gibbs stopped writing, looked up slowly. He'd flipped someone _inside_ the fortress?

"And how did you do that?"

Kort rolled his eyes. "In the usual way I imagine, Gibbs."

A deal.

In fairness, something like this probably had to happen sooner or later. They needed more information on Londono's paranoid crew than what they could get purely through surveillance.

But it wasn't fair. That was the point. It made Gibbs' blood burn, absolutely boil in his veins.

One of the lieutenants was getting a deal. A _bargain_. How nice for him. What about the two kids Gibbs found shivering on his porch, what did they get? Separated from their families way too young, as far as Gibbs could tell. No one to look out for them. They got that. But it wasn't exactly a bargain, was it? What else? Addicted to heroin. Burned and shot and stabbed. And that was just what Gibbs knew for sure, what he'd seen with his own eyes. There was more, he had no doubt.

Meanwhile a lieutenant who had probably made money off of the suffering of those very kids, probably _gotten off_ on their suffering, was getting a deal. Possibly something that would manoeuver him right into a big fat promotion in the drug world anyway, so he could go on ruining lives and living large. Perfect.

And what could Gibbs do about it?

Nothing, as far as he could tell. The kid wouldn't come to him. Kort had Gray's trust, for some twisted reason. Kort had the jurisdiction and enough CIA backing to do what he wanted on this case. He had Gibbs' team by the balls because he'd orchestrated Gibbs' rescue - because Gibbs had been stupid enough to get himself into that situation. Because Paloma Reynosa eventually grew up, and Gibbs had made enemies of cartels, and allowed them to live. Because his team was loyal despite his mistakes. . . .

Kort had the power here because Gibbs had murdered Pedro Hernandez, though he was supposed to be on the right side of the law. He couldn't help but feel that even twenty years on, karma was a bitch.

His agents watched as Gibbs gripped his pen a little tighter, turned a little redder. Definitely on the verge of explosion.

But Gibbs simply turned back to his paperwork. "Well, good for you," he said quietly. "What does that have to do with me."

"He'll be incarcarated until he's fulfilled his end of the deal," Kort plowed on. "Along with two others on the fringes of the organization that I've taken into custody in South Africa. I need a place to hold them once they're transfered to the States. The NCIS pens would be ideal, more private than anything the CIA has stateside and less likely to end up on Calera radar, as long as you keep your head down. We'll also need Gray to observe the interrogations and corroborate, which can't happen overseas." Kort paused thoughtfully. "Not easily, anyway."

Gibbs abandoned the form again. "Excuse me? Gray will _what_?"

"His information is too valuable to waste, Gibbs." Kort spoke to the boss like he was some green probie. "There will be risks in bringing him here, of course. I'll arrange protection."

Kort actually sounded pleased, while Gibbs' stomach lurched. He didn't want the kid within a hundred miles of any one of Londono's lieutenants, former or not. He didn't want him in the same time zone. And how successful had they been at protecting him so far? Kort's standards on that score didn't exactly seem high.

Burned, shot, stabbed. And that was what they knew for sure . . .

Gibbs continued to stare at that form, but he was too angry now to make much of a pretense of filling it out. "Well, you're pulling the strings, Kort," he said, very quiet. "You make a deal with _El Diablo_, I'm sure the director will let you use our pens to hold him."

Kort shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfect suit. He looked, for the first time, like he might be getting a little irritated, losing a little of his cool. Tony drank it in. Really, had the man expected a high-five?

"It isn't El Diablo, unfortunately," Kort drawled. "It's one of the men who worked for Diablo under Londono. But I _am_ good. Get enough information out of this one, sweeten the pot with a _really_ nice deal," he taunted, "and yes, Gibbs. I might even get the devil to flip."

El Diablo. The devil.

Abby had done her research, just as Gibbs asked, and found out more about Declan O'Donnell. She had told them, face pale, of rumors stemming from rural Colombian villages, the stories that circulated among the grunts of several cartels. Gave them transcripts of interviews done by aid agencies. She explained how Declan O'Donnell earned his nickname.

They knew, now, what the scars on Gray's torso meant.

Gibbs couldn't see properly out of his peripheral vision anymore. Red mist floated at the edges of the room, and he'd have sworn Gray's high scream, that one note of pain from the clearing, echoed in his ears.

He stood and came slowly out from behind his desk.

Kort didn't take a step back, didn't move a muscle. Ziva was fair-minded enough to admit, in the privacy of her own mind, that this was impressive.

The entire team, on the other hand, backed off. While they would obviously have Gibbs' back, there were times when the best thing you could do for the bossman was get out of his way.

"I'm curious, Kort." Gibbs' voice was calm, but loud, and his face was red. The team exchanged _oh shit_ glances and edged back again. "How do you make a deal with someone who actually works for the devil. Did you join in the fun to earn their trust?" His voice softened even as his eyes grew impossibly hard, the words like stones dropped in a black pool, a whisper sent into the abyss. "Is that how you met Gray?"

Kort stepped _forward_. "That offends you doesn't it, Gibbs. You've heard the stories about El Diablo, hm? You think some of the taint will rub off on you? You don't have to worry," he said gently, and then leaned so close he was practically whispering in Gibbs' ear. "You can have your noble crusade. You can even play the hero, patch Gray up and hold his hand . . . after the boy and I have done the dirty work."

It was too fast to see. But the bullpen was silent now, all eyes on them, and Gibbs' fist hitting Kort's face sounded like bones breaking.

Kort spun with the force of it, but he didn't go down.

After a moment he straightened back up and looked at Gibbs again, utterly cool, ignoring the wash of blood already running down his chin, dripping steadily onto his snowy white shirt. His hands were still in his pockets.

Gibbs waited for him to hit back, but Kort just grinned, eyes running over Gibbs' face as if he was fascinated by it. "Amazing. All this time and your own family, and you'll never understand it, will you?"

Gibbs was a statue. Rigid.

"You can't fight the devil with your fists, Gibbs. Or even with that shiny rifle you're so proud of." Kort paused, mocking, considering the problem. "You want to tear him to pieces, don't you, destroy him like you destroyed Hernandez. Though you must know by now that didn't solve a thing?"

Kort paused. Gibbs focused on the pain in his hand, and reached for sanity. "Get out of here, Kort."

The CIA Agent's voice was warm, friendly as he leaned in close again. "I'll tell you a secret, Gibbs. Taming the devil is simple, if you have the balls. Just ask your Kidon lapdog." Kort glanced pointedly at Ziva. "All you have to do is befriend his children. Steal them away and make them your own. Already worked well enough for you, hasn't it?"

Kort's smile was full of teeth.

That time when Gibbs swung, Kort did too. The agents watching let them go at it, until Vance came out and called security, and guards pulled the silent, bleeding men apart.


	43. Three Short

**Chapter 43: Three Short**

When Gibbs got home that night there were two cars there that shouldn't have been. The familiar one was parked down the street, empty. Another he'd never seen before was directly across from his house. A figure sat inside.

David Holdner, CIA Boss in the flesh, climbed out of his car and walked up to meet Gibbs on the concrete path leading from his driveway to the porch. Both of them slowed to a stop in the middle of the wintery gray lawn.

"Agent Gibbs. Either your relationship with Agent David is closer than I would have guessed or you have an intruder in there," Holdner nodded at the house.

Gibbs jiggled his keys in his hand. "Ziva's welcome anytime." _As opposed to . . ._

Holdner smiled. "I have some information to share that I think you'll find interesting. If that will buy my welcome?"

Gibbs' gaze grew sharp. He led the man into his house and they sat down at the battered kitchen table over coffee.

Holdner let his eyes roam over Gibbs' face. "Well. If you had to have a schoolyard scuffle I'm glad my boy at least gave as good as he got."

Gibbs was less in the mood for small talk than he'd ever been. "Is the plane still in Atlanta?"

"No. It left about an hour ago. Looks like they're bound for Miami."

Gibbs nodded, staring into his coffee. Miami didn't mean anything, it was a hub for a hundred cities. They could be headed anywhere from there –

"If our intelligence is correct they'll stay in southern Florida for several days before flying on to Valledupar, Colombia."

Gibbs looked up. Intelligence meant – "You've ID'd it," he said.

"Yes. It landed at a private strip in Georgia but we were able to get eyes on it. The jet belongs to a real estate magnate with holdings in Florida and throughout Colombia."

Gibbs felt fierce satisfaction well up in his gut. "It's them."

Holdner nodded. "We believe so. Now all that remains is identifying and tracking the supplier onboard. Then identifying and tracking his contacts, their contacts . . ." Holdner waved a hand dismissively at the massive undertaking.

But it was _cracked_ now. If they were right about the plane and who was in it, who those people worked for, it was their chance to pry the cartel wide open. Kort's informant would explain and confirm what they gathered, fill in the blanks.

"You've got people in place to gather intel?"

"Hm. As it happens the Caleras are held responsible for bringing down two helicopters with US personnel on board a few years ago, including several Special Operations soldiers. Your director worked with Spec Ops Command to send a team down to Valledupar. They'll be waiting when the plane lands. The surveillance will be skeletal, obviously. Spook this cartel and they'll go to ground for years."

Gibbs nodded. The need for secrecy would make progress slow, but it was a start. "You get any farther than we did with John Casey?"

The license they'd pulled for the man that met AK in the diner turned out to be an incredibly sophisticated fake. Actually, it wasn't exactly fake. An entire identity had been created – license, clean financials, phones – it was all there. The documents were real. It was just that they were for a person who didn't exist. It was exactly the kind of deep cover ID that agents used when they were undercover, and practically impenetrable.

If they could bring in local law enforcement then identification might not have been such an insurmountable problem, no matter how sophisticated the cover. Every criminal has to start somewhere afterall, and their early photos and prints should still be in databases, like Declan O'Donnell's in Belfast. But alerting locals to a hunt for the dozens of men that must be running Londono's operation was out of the question – the Caleras seemed to be in deep everywhere they operated. McGee mentioned that even running the ID's through the systems could alert hackers on the Calera end to searches targeted at their people.

"We have an ID," Holdner said, sipping his coffee and looking at Gibbs over the rim. "But it wasn't us that pegged him."

"Oh yeah? FBI?"

"No."

"Interpol?"

"No."

Gibbs waited, but Holdner didn't say anything. "You want me to guess?"

"No government agency in any country had any idea who he is."

No government agency? That meant an insider . . .

"El Diablo's man," Gibbs said tersely.

"No. He will be an extremely valuable asset, but the paperwork on Trent's little intelligence coup hasn't been signed quite yet."

They were silent, Gibbs staring into his coffee.

"You had to know this was coming." Holdner studied him like a bug under a microscope. "They're too cautious for outside surveillance to dig up who their members are or where they're from, much less what they do, specifically, for the cartel. Any surveillance deep enough to be of use there would also tip them off to the fact that they're being watched. We only have one contact who could identify that man, as you well know."

Gibbs shook his head.

"Gray ID'd him," Holdner continued. "Apparently our 'John Casey' does go by Casey, though we don't know if that's a first or last name, or if John is real at all. According to the boy he's a gopher for a high-level operative in the cartel. Has been for many years."

Gibbs eventually looked up to return the other man's close stare, breathing deliberately, calmly. His temper hadn't nearly run its course on this and they just kept pouring fuel on the fire. "Kid must have climbed the ranks fast."

"He's ambitious," Holdner agreed lightly.

Gibbs just looked at him. No child running around in the jungle outside of those camps should be able to identify the organization's brass. Especially in an organization where the brass stays well clear of the foot soldiers.

The other man sighed. "Come on. You don't see it?"

"I can guess. Just - rather not," he admitted.

"Then I suggest you ask him."

Ask Gray?

Gibbs laughed. That only ever got him anywhere when the kid was post-trauma. Delirious or zeroing in on shock, and minus a pint or two of blood.

"Oh," Hofner grinned. "Believe me, I know.

"Yeah? You've had a crack at questioning him? I thought the kid was Kort's trophy, locked in the trophy case." Or a puppet, brought out to play when he was useful. It burned that Gibbs didn't have the power to protect Gray from the CIA chessboard, literally burned. His stomach felt like it was full of coals.

"Mmm. Is that why you've been digging into Trent's background? Trying to figure out how that alliance happened? And why?"

Gibbs returned the man's look unapologetically. Holdner just smiled.

"You won't find anything."

Well, they hadn't found exactly what they were looking for, that was true. But Gibbs scoffed, because his team hadn't come up entirely empty either. "We've traced him all the way back to Manchester Grammar School."

Holdner grinned. "Oh, I bet you have. Pretty boring background for an agent of his swagger, isn't it?"

Gibbs sat back, trying to read the odd humor in the other man's eyes. The silence stretched out between them until Holdner raised his eyebrows. And laughed. It was big and jolly, like some kind of CIA Santa Claus.

"You telling me it's fake? All of it?" Gibbs said incredulously.

"To a point," Holdner grinned.

He turned the coffee mug set before him in his long fingers, studying the scarred top of Gibbs' ancient kitchen table. The cheerful face fell away, replaced by something more like earnest. "I met Trent when he was young and desperate. Well, to be fair I was desperate too at the time. He saved my life. More than once. In return I helped him to escape a difficult situation, to start a new life of his own. I've never thought of him as my 'trophy' but I don't deny that he's been a useful recruit."

_When he was quite young . . . never thought of him as my trophy –_

Gibbs stared at the man. "_You_ gave him a new life? He's not British?"

"He's an American now, actually."

Gibbs jerked his head in frustration. "He wasn't born in Britain?"

"No." Holdner paused. "His father was British, a member of the SAS. But Trent was born in Lebanon."

"And Trent Kort isn't his name," Gibbs ground out.

"It wasn't the one he started out with, no. I gave him that name, the day I met him." Holdner leaned back and crossed his arms over his belly, chuckling. Gibbs' stony face didn't seem to affect his mood in the slightest.

"I was based in Lebanon for several years, saw some of the worst of the civil war there. One mission went bad and I found myself surrounded by hostile forces, injured and too far out to make it home. I couldn't walk on my own, had no water. I'd already been stuck there for two days when he found me - I came to after a mortar attack brought a pile of rocks down on my head to find this kid staring at me. He was in the same predicament, minus the injuries. We were trapped there until he - well. It's all classified. Suffice to say he did something completely nuts. Was cool as a cucumber through it all, though. Too cool to be entirely sane. He got us out of it, dragged me along with him for some reason that I still don't entirely understand."

Holdner paused. "We survived, but it was risky as hell and I was livid. I was sure I'd have eventually found a safer way. As he likes to point out, I still haven't quite worked out what that alternative could have been," he admitted. "After we'd gotten clear he tried to dump me with a medic and disappear. I lost it, hollered at him and everyone else within a mile radius that he was three short of a six-pack. He didn't even understand the phrase, though, given his English at the time. At that point I had enough backup to start throwing my weight around. I insisted that he surrender his weapons to me. That I was going to evacuate him. I think he went along with it because our canteen was the best stocked kitchen in the city. He packed away everything I put in front of him. It was incredible."

Holdner grinned fondly before picking up the narrative again.

"Before I could get him out the two of us ended up stuck in a . . . well, another tricky predicament. We were cut off for four months. I lost several people." He paused, eyes far away. "Trent has a prickly personality but he is also preternaturally calm. Have you noticed that? Nothing rattles him. He was incredibly sanguine through it all, defying the usual boundaries of any rational person under stress, much less a child. Whenever I pointed this out he would remind me that he was three short of a six-pack." Holdner laughed. "Smart-ass from the beginning. We were in the company of a French Foreign Legion unit at the time, since I was ostensibly under their protection. You know how legionnaires can't join up under their own names?"

Gibbs nodded. Traditionally Legionnaires left their old lives behind, even their old names, and signed up under aliases.

"They took me in because they were ordered to, and gave me a pretty unflattering nickname based on that order. They allowed Trent to tag along as well, since I'd tried to take him under my wing. Of course he was also a useful source of information in the area. He knew the people, the geography, and he could take care of himself anyway - he'd been involved in the fighting for years. Trent the legionnaires actually liked, for his information and I suppose because they were also impressed by his recklessness. He became a sort of mascot to them. They thought 'Three Short' was a fantastic alias, but usually just called him 'Short,' since he was at the time." Holdner smiled. "It stuck."

Gibbs frowned, sorting through the bizarre story. "Trent Kort? That's . . . _trente court_ is thirty short."

"Did a stint in Paris didn't you? When I was making out his birth certificate I thought "Trois" as a first name might not go down so well for an English kid. He'd get the crap beat out of him no matter how badass he was. When I finally managed to pull him out of Lebanon I went with Trent instead."

'Making out' his birth certificate. Forging it, more like. Gibbs rubbed a hand across his forehead. "A kid."

"Don't bother looking into his background. You won't find anything he doesn't want you to know. Like your Agent David there are some things in his past he'd rather stay buried, and for good reason."

Gibbs set his jaw against the shiver crawling up his spine. "So you sent Kort to Colombia to recruit child soldiers as informants. Because he was one."

"Damn right I did." Holdner stood. "Don't be fooled by his efforts to provoke you, Agent Gibbs. Trent only charms the ones he doesn't trust. The fact that you even know Gray exists is proof of his regard. He holds you in high esteem."

Gibbs blinked up at him.

Holdner let curious eyes run around Gibbs' living room, cataloging the worn furniture, the stacks of books. "The South African op was in the works for almost two years," he said absently. Like he was talking to himself. "We had to keep pushing it back. Trouble was Kort - he didn't expect to make it out." Holdner's gaze shifted suddenly, sweeping over the agent in front of him in blatant appraisal. "That didn't use to bother him. This time around though . . . guess he wanted to get his affairs in order."

Gibbs frowned. "I'm one of his affairs?" Incredulous again.

"No," Holdner laughed. "I think you're on the getting-things-in-order side of things, Agent Gibbs. Fortunately Trent did survive. But that means the two of you need to work together on the Calera front." Holdner scratched his head ruefully. "Not something Trent really anticipated, I don't think," he muttered.

Gibbs could only stare at the man.

Holdner stared back, and for once, it seemed, was totally serious. "What I came here to say, Gibbs, is that you should trust him where Gray is concerned. He knows where that boy is at, understands him better than you or I ever will. Thank you for the coffee," he nodded, already turning away. "We'll be in touch when surveillance goes live in Valledupar."

Gibbs sat at his kitchen table and watched him walk out the door.

**x**

He found her in the basement of course, sitting in the shadows. Almost the exact spot where her brother had waited for him years before.

She watched him as he crossed the room and pulled out a stool, but when he sat and faced her she let her gaze wander over the walls.

"What's up, Ziva?"

"Well - " She waved vaguely toward the stairs. "First of all you should probably know that I . . . overheard. Most of that."

"Yeah. I figured." Holdner must have assumed she'd been eavesdropping too. "Why're you here?"

She nodded and rubbed her hands together, straightened her back. "I have acquired some information about Gray. And, well, Cassie too I suppose."

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

"He may not appreciate my telling you this." She glanced at him. Frowned. "But I do not think that it reveals anything that you do not already . . . know. Suspect. About him, anyway."

She slipped to her feet and took a step forward, meeting his gaze. "You know that I - " she stopped abruptly, hands mid-gesture.

And then started over, posture stiff as her words. "You may recall that you once recommended a private clinic to me. One that specializes in recovery from - " slice of an arm through the air, and a slight pivot, to take her gaze away from his " - assault. I did not make use of most of the services there. But they do hire an excellent martial arts instructor to teach a class in self-defense. Which I took." She wrinkled her nose. "It was very basic. And I . . . well, I proposed a more advance course." She crossed her arms over her chest. Uncrossed them. "I teach a class there now. One day a week, before work."

Gibbs grinned.

She glanced at him, caught the look. And finally relaxed, slowly. Hands dropping, and her shoulders too. After a moment she smiled back at him, beautiful. "I enjoy it."

"I bet."

"When we got back from Colombia . . . I . . ." She managed to hold his gaze this time, with a little effort, even as the grin slipped from his face. "I wanted to brush up on my skills. I engaged the instructor in advanced private lessons, twice a week. We exchange techniques. I think it . . ." A hand came up again, unconscious. Soft gestures this time. "I think it has been beneficial."

He nodded. She'd been jumpy for weeks after the attack and near rape, but it had settled in time. Apparently beating the crap out of a martial arts expert had helped.

"I had to reschedule my session last week. We arranged to meet at a different time, on a different day." She straightened her shoulders once more. "I spotted Cassie and Gray when I was leaving the clinic, Gibbs. They were in the company of two others who I did not recognize."

Gibbs stared at her.

"I do not believe that they saw me. But I am sure it was them."

He nodded, already preoccupied.

"You know who runs that clinic, Gibbs."

He sure as hell did.


	44. Couples Therapy

**Chapter 44: Couples Therapy**

"Somebody better be dead."

"Gibbs. Get up and get your ass down here."

" . . . Fornell?"

"Get up, Gibbs! And get down here!"

Tobias was kind of short of breath, like he was hurrying somewhere.

"Down where?"

"FBI pens. Got your no-name kid in here. Again."

Gibbs sat up, one hand reaching out in the pitch black for the lamp even as he rolled to his feet. "Dargas arrest him?" He grabbed for the jeans folded in the laundry basket and hopped into them. "What charges?"

"No, Gibbs. _I _arrested him. Assault and battery. Now get up and get your ass down here."

Fornell hung up.

**x**

The kid was sitting at an interrogation table, hands folded in front of him. He looked relaxed.

Gibbs studied Gray through the glass and decided he had absolutely no idea if it was real or just a front.

"You didn't cuff him?"

"He didn't resist."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. Suspects on violent offenses were cuffed, period.

Fornell shrugged, and Gibbs sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Maybe Gray spooked when they tried to cuff him, and they decided it wasn't worth it? Or maybe Fornell was playing nice because he knew the kid had some kind of connection to Gibbs.

Fornell was more of a chugger than a sipper, no matter what the beverage, and he'd already drained the coffee Gibbs brought along as the customary bribe. Course, he'd been up a lot longer than Gibbs. The arrest was made at 2330. He'd called Gibbs at half past three.

"Don't suppose you know his name yet?" Tobias probed.

"Nope. So what's the plan?"

"The plan?" Fornell was grouchy. He didn't seem to be a middle-of-the-night person. "The plan is you go in there and get him to tell you who the girl is and what the hell happened, that's the plan. And try not to pull your weapon on any FBI agents you meet along the way."

Gibbs smirked. So he was a little assertive with security when he arrived. Fornell had been MIA and Gibbs was not in the mood to haggle with front desk jockeys.

"Do you think we need to get a cwa in here?" Fornell grimaced and checked his watch. It'd be hours before a child welfare advocate would arrive.

"Pretty sure he's emancipated," Gibbs grunted, amused for some reason that Fornell didn't have the patience to figure out. Apparently Gibbs _was_ a middle-of-the-night person.

Still Jethro hesitated a moment and stared at Gray, who stared back, unseeing, through the opaque mirror.

Fornell had no idea that the kid wasn't likely to spill his guts to Gibbs. To put it mildly. And Gibbs wasn't about to enlighten him, not before he at least had a chance to coax some information out of Gray. Besides, he might get lucky. Maybe Gray was feeling chatty.

Gibbs looked amused when he entered the room and pulled out a chair across from Gray. He settled down quietly and sat there for awhile, enjoying his coffee, by all appearances, and admiring the wall just beyond the kid's head.

Gray's face stayed blank for the first minute. And the second. Somewhere toward the end of the third his eyebrows came together, just the slightest bit.

That was probably the best invitation Gibbs was going to get. "Fancy meeting you here," he said.

The kid stared.

"How's the leg?" Gibbs asked.

More staring. And then, finally . . . "Fine."

Back in the observation room Fornell perked up. That was the first word Gibbs' kid had said since the scene.

"All healed up?" No way. It'd been less than three weeks.

The kid shrugged.

"FBI sent me in to talk to you. They're hoping you'll tell me what happened."

"Already told them."

"Yeah." Gibbs sipped his coffee. "Heard you confessed to beating up one Joshua Burnett, fifty-two, of Silver Springs."

Silence.

"In case you were curious," Gibbs continued, "in addition to knocking him out you broke his collar bone and cracked two ribs. Gave him multiple contusions, lacerations and a concussion. They put six stitches in his lip."

An indifferent pause, one Gibbs waited out.

"Ouch," Gray said finally.

Gibbs laughed. "Yeah."

Fornell crossed his arms over his chest. Gibbs could be a lot of things, but indifferent, especially to an arrest that got him out of bed at four in the morning, wasn't usually one of them.

"Course," he sounded like he was still smiling, "if the FBI knew you like I know you they'd realize their mistake."

The kid didn't react to that, but the quiet between the two of them was heavy now. In the observation room the low buzz of recording equipment was suddenly obnoxious.

"I don't have the leverage to force any answers out of you tonight. That's fine." Gibbs shrugged easily. "We can just sit here till they get bored and send me home. It'll probably take them a few days to organize a bail hearing for you, though."

The kid seemed to accept that. If the total lack of reaction was anything to go by.

Silence.

Fornell uncrossed his arms and sat down in one of the plastic chairs set against the far wall. Only to get up again and walk close to the glass.

Gibbs looked like he wished he'd brought along something to read.

"You know, for future reference, you might want to avoid criminal activity when you're in the company of anyone under FBI surveillance," Gibbs said helpfully. "Or when you're anywhere near an FBI bust. You could save me these late night trips to the Hoover building."

Silence.

Two minutes. Three. Four . . .

"Did you know the woman with you was under FBI surveillance?"

Nothing.

"You know about Burnett's arrest record?"

The kid smirked a little. But said nothing.

Fornell watched the red second hand sweep around the face of the clock in the observation room. Once. Twice. Three times . . .

"So. What's with the tie?"

Gray's eyes refocused lazily on Gibbs. "What's with your face?"

"Kort beat me up," Gibbs said promptly.

The kid frowned, slightly, eyes running over the the most prominent of the technicolor bruises on Gibbs' forehead. "Had this school thing."

Gibbs propped an elbow on the table and sat forward, intrigued. A tie to a 'school thing' on a Saturday night? And that was a nice shirt – looked like something Dinozzo would wear on a Friday night. He leaned over to get a look at the kid's shiny shoes. Grinned. "Were you headed to a high school dance? Before you got arrested?"

"Coming from. Why?"

There was no doubt in Gibbs' mind on what the _why_ referred to. "Professional disagreement. So, the girl with you was your date?"

The kid's face smoothed out.

Three more minutes. Four . . .

Gibbs shifted back in his chair. "Kort and I disagreed about a deal that was offered to one of his South African contacts. Specifically about whether or not one of his contacts here should observe the interrogations of a South African informant. I'm not in favor of it, but I don't really get a say. Took a couple of punches but eventually he hit me back."

Fornell's eyes widened. Was Gibbs . . . ?

"She wasn't my date."

He was!

"Go to school with you?"

"No."

Gibbs paused. "You really go to school?"

The kid nodded.

"Hm. Thing is, Burnett woke up an hour ago. And he said the girl with you was nicely dressed too."

Nothing.

"Like she was going to a dance, maybe. Or coming from one."

Gray didn't even blink. "She was someone else's date."

Well, Tobias thought, Gibbs had gotten the kid to acknowledge that the girl existed, and was there. That was more than Fornell or any of his agents got.

"Burnett says it was the girl who attacked him."

Silence.

"Not you," Gibbs added.

"He's confused."

Gibbs nodded. "He did get hit on the head pretty hard."

" . . . Right."

Both agents smiled faintly at the game. "He remembers the girl so well, though. Light gray dress with small black flowers, black coat. Long dark hair. He says she had scars on her neck and right hand. Old burns, he thinks."

Nothing.

"She must have fled the scene just before the FBI agents arrived. I guess your leg isn't up to fleeing scenes yet, huh?"

Nothing.

"You know anyone who fits that girl's description? They'd like to question her. Since she's the one actually accused of the crime," Gibbs said wryly.

Nothing. Fornell shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled. What were they at, fifteen minutes of total silence since they'd started?

Sixteen, now. Seventeen . . .

Gibbs tried again. "You know where to find her?"

Nothing. Fornell shifted irritably.

"Her name?"

Nothing.

Why was Gibbs putting up with this?

"How about the woman who was also with you?" Gibbs said easily. "She know the girl's name?"

Eighteen minutes. Nineteen . . .

"What were you doing at that clinic in the first place?"

That got a glare. But nothing else.

Fornell sighed. It looked like Gibbs had run out of bargaining material.

Gibbs decided to take another tack. "Let's say you did attack Burnett. Why?"

"Self-defense," Gray said tersely.

"Burnett attacked you? Well, if we could talk to the girl we'd have another witness to confirm that."

Gray smiled, unimpressed. "You already have another witness."

"Maybe. But Ms. Snow's not talking until her lawyer gets here."

The kid shrugged. _Not my problem_.

Silence.

Followed by nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Fornell paced the short length of the viewing room. This little incident needed to go away, and quietly, or one of the best cooperating witnesses his section had ever scored could be compromised. But a guy was in the hospital, local LEOs were at the scene once the paramedics were called by his own agents, and the only way Fornell could see this going away was if someone got nailed for it and confessed in a hurry.

As long as it wasn't his witness that went down, or got dragged into a trial, Tobias was fine with that. Hell, they already had a kid in custody and a confession to boot.

But Gibbs, for whatever reason, seemed attached to the mini mute. Which left the mystery girl to take the fall. And that was appropriate, after all, since it was the mystery girl who had apparently knocked the snot out of Burnett. All they had to do was find her and apply the screws until she admitted it. Simple.

All Jethro had to do was get the boy to give up the girl.

Gibbs studied the impassive kid across from him. He was as unreadable now as he had been in Colombia, when he slipped like a whisper into a guard hut and freed a perfect stranger.

He thought about Gray going out into the DC night, alone, to find a friend. To drag a drug addict back into the fold. How many nights had he spent chasing after Diego? That's what he'd been doing, of course, when he was arrested and Gibbs bailed him out. And the night Dargas' raid caught both boys in its net, all those months ago. And the night he was shot. Gray had never given up.

He thought about the kid running through the jungle to catch up with the team, to catch up with a _truck_, fighting for people he hardly knew. Thought about him in a room just like this one, silent, and alone again, when a couple of FBI agents slammed him over a table. Gray had actually known the information they were after. But he'd been resolute. Immovable.

Cassie was loyal to Gray for a reason. He would never give her up. He would never give up one molecule of that girl.

Honestly, he wasn't sure that he wanted Gray to give them anything on Cassie. He didn't know the whole story, didn't know what went down tonight, and he obviously wasn't going to get it from the kid.

Gibbs was stubborn, but he wasn't an idiot. There was no point in knocking his head against this wall.

"So," he sighed, "you have a good time at the dance?"

Gray's eyes ran over the dreary interrogation room. "Better than lockup."

"Mm. Bet your date was prettier than me, too."

"Yep."

Gibbs tapped his index finger softly on the table. The silence stretched again, the only other sound in the room the distant mechanical whir of the ventilation fans.

He was done here, and bored. "Prettier than Fornell?"

Fornell opened the door to the interrogation room at that point and extracted Gibbs from it with a _come hither _glare.

Out in the hall Gibbs drained the last of his coffee. "I want to talk to her."

Tobias ignored him, heading toward the elevators. "That was quite a negotiation, Jethro. Reminded me of couples therapy with our ex-wife."

Gibbs didn't say anything.

"Had to do a few shrink-sanctioned _relationship_ exercises just like that."

"I got more out of him than you got."

"True."

"So you going to let me talk to her or what?"

Fornell shook his head. "She's clammed up until her hot-shot lawyer gets here." He glanced at Gibbs and stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait a second. Do you know her? _Know_ her know her?"

"No," Gibbs shrugged. But did he . . . did Gibbs _blush_?

"Holy cow," Fornell said bluntly.

Gibbs tossed his empty cup into a wastebasket. Somehow, he'd managed to inscrutably throw away trash.

"Well, well, well." Fornell could barely contain his fascination. But did, just, at Gibbs' glare. "Fine, Cyrano. Give it a shot. She's waiting for her attorney up in our conference room."

They reached the elevators and Fornell hit the button. Rocked on his heels a bit. Glanced at Gibbs.

"So, Holly Snow," he pondered. "How's this going to go, Jethro? You want the couples therapist on the line or are you two still in the honeymoon phase?"

He smiled innocently at Cyrano's glare. Things were looking up. If Gibbs knew both of the witnesses they might just squeak out of this quietly whether the kid cooperated or not.

How Gibbs happened to know both of them – that was the real mystery.

**x**

She looked up when he walked in, and smiled, watching as he closed the door firmly behind him.

"Agent Gibbs. Didn't expect to see you here." Her eyes widened a little as she took in his face. Narrowed faintly at his red-rimmed eyes. "What happened to you?"

He pushed a cup of vending machine coffee across the table to her and sat down. "Too many punches. Followed by too much bourbon." They were supposed to be off this weekend, anyway.

"Looks painful."

He almost smiled. "I'm told I gave as good as I got."

They sat quietly for a few moments, Gibbs letting the puzzle pieces come together in his mind.

"I didn't realize you worked so closely with the FBI," she probed. "Are you here about the embezzling case?"

"Not here for any case. Or for you," he said shortly.

Her eyebrows did that quirked . . . sort of reverse bow thing. The inquiring look.

She'd never been bothered by his brusque manner, or at least never let on if she was. But she was smart, and put it together fast. "You know Gray? Cass?"

Oh god. It was really her.

He hadn't been sure, before, even with what Ziva told him.

All this time. It was Holly Snow.

He fought down an insane urge to laugh. "How do you know them?"

Her expression smoothed out, into that perfect regal calm. "I can't say."

He nodded, looking down at the table. "They get help at your clinic?"

Holly sipped her coffee calmly.

Victims - patients - were confidential. Fair enough.

Gibbs let his eyes wander to the window, glass cloudy with the yellow-on-black glow of the parking lot lights. "Gray claims he beat up Burnett in self-defense."

Holly shifted a little. Uncomfortably? "I know."

And she's not happy about it, Gibbs noted. But not contradicting it either.

"Burnett woke up a little while ago. Said we got the wrong kid. Claims a girl attacked him." He let his eyes come back to hers. "Not that I'd have bought that it was Gray anyway."

"No? Why is that?" she asked curiously. She was always curious about things, or had been, when they'd worked together on that one case. She liked to understand things. People. It reminded him bizarrely of Abby.

"Gray usually keeps his cool, in a physical confrontation," Gibbs said. _I know him. Trust me._ "I think Burnett would be set back with a warning if he tried to threaten Gray, or anyone he was with. And if this guy turned out to be a real threat his body would never be found. No inbetween."

Like he'd told the kid just a few minutes ago, Gibbs knew something that the FBI didn't. Gray didn't like to fight. But when he did engage, Gibbs would bet his instinct was to kill.

She just looked at him. And nodded.

So she knew Gray too.

"Instead we've got someone acting impulsively, but not lethally. Attacking in anger," Gibbs cocked his head. "Or fear."

Holly glanced at the door where her lawyer would be appearing any second. "Well, it sounds like you have your theory all figured out. What are you talking to me for?"

"Is the girl alright?"

"I believe so."

"Where is she?"

Holly sipped the coffee he'd set down in front of her. "Somewhere safe."

Well, that was vague.

"What I'm not sure about is why he'd lie," Gibbs put out there. "He's never lied to me before."

"Anyone would lie to protect someone they care about."

"Protect her from the FBI?" he said skeptically. How much did Holly know? "What for?"

She hesitated, and sighed. When she spoke he had the impression she knew exactly what she was handing him. He'd managed, somewhere along the line, to earn her trust. Fresh from his continual failure with Gray it felt . . . odd.

"After what happened the last time he was here?" she pointed out. "And even if the arresting agents were perfectly nice, even if it was self-defense, she could face time. Or be sent to a juvenile facility and end up with a record. Sentencing in these situations is unpredictable."

No indication that Holly knew about the danger posed by the cartel. But she did know what went on with Gray. The kid had turned to her. Was getting help at the clinic.

At least he was getting it somewhere.

Gibbs tipped back in his chair and was quiet for a minute, contemplating the fiberboard ceiling. "How do you know Burnett?"

She gazed at him, considering. And finally answered. "I don't, really. He's been stalking me off and on for several months. I'm not sure what his connection is to me, or if it's random. But he saw me one day at the clinic and just kept turning up," she shrugged. Being physically beautiful and a recognizable figure had a lot of advantages. But it carried a few risks as well – she'd attracted plenty of psychos over the years.

"You go to the police?"

She nodded. "I filed for a restraining order when it started."

"Since then?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't think the police could help," she said honestly. "I've dealt with this kind of thing before."

Gibbs pulled in his temper. "Were you aware he was arrested for beating his wife?" he asked flatly.

Holly stilled. "No," she said slowly. "I didn't know that."

She seemed to mull something over. "He wasn't charged?"

"Wife dropped the charges. Twice." Which meant it wasn't a matter of public record.

"Damn," she sighed. "Gray knew somehow, didn't he?"

Gibbs felt his temper fade a bit. She hadn't known. "Looks that way. Burnett threaten you?"

"Yes, he did."

"Tonight? In front of the kids."

She nodded.

"He hurt you?"

Hesitation. Like maybe he had in the past, but not tonight. "It looked like a possibility."

He'd come at her, then, with both kids watching. And Cassie had attacked him. Burnett was lucky to be alive.

"Why were they there?" She started to shake her head and he held up a hand to show he wasn't after anything private. "Clinic closes at ten, doesn't it?"

Holly's look was hard to read. "I was working late and they were at a winter formal. Cass came by to show me her dress," she said softly. "That's what they said, anyway."

"You think there was more to it?"

A very small shrug. "They found out that Burnett has been showing up at odd times a few weeks ago. I told them not to worry about it but . . . . for the past couple weeks they've been around a little more often. Checking in. I wasn't sure - a friend of theirs died recently. I thought that might have been what put them on edge. But if they found out this guy has a history of violence . . . "

They'd have kept an eye on Holly. And with their increased presence at the clinic Ziva had spotted them.

Gibbs rubbed his forehead and instantly regretted it. He'd clipped it on the edge of his desk when Kort tackled him.

When he glanced up she was watching him with something between sympathy and laughter. She wordlessly offered back the coffee, and he reached out automatically to take a slow sip. Handed it back.

It wasn't until she'd picked it up again that it felt weirdly intimate.

But he was really tired. And Kort had punched him in the head really hard, not long after he'd bounced his skull off the desk. Gibbs would be surprised if the man hadn't broken at least a few bones in his hand with that punch alone. His head hurt like hell.

"Let's see . . . " Holly rummaged in her tiny purse and came back up, a few seconds later, with a single dose packet of Advil. She handed it over with that serene smile, and nudged the coffee toward him again.

He took both, nodding his thanks.

"My pleasure." Voice . . . warm. Very warm.

Right.

Fornell's entire team knew about this incident, not to mention the LEOs who had been at the scene and the stalker who'd got the shit beat out of him. As it stood even Kort would be hard pressed to make it all just disappear . . .

He picked the thread of the conversation back up. "If it was really just self-defense we only need to talk to her. Get a corresponding statement. She won't do any time or have a record." He would make sure of it.

Holly looked at him for a long time. And slowly, ever so slightly, shook her head.

Right.


	45. Good for It

**Chapter 45: Good For It**

Holly's lawyer got her released in about two minutes. Insisted she hadn't seen what happened.

He also pointed out that she didn't have to continue cooperating as sweetly with the FBI as she had been. Holly happened to have two agents tailing her at the clinic because she was about to join them as a consulting witness on an embezzlement case. When the tail found Gray and Holly standing over an unconscious Burnett the bust was postponed. Holly's lawyer pointed out that it could still be canceled.

One of Fornell's agents found out that Burnett's wife had sought refuge at the clinic under her maiden name. Gibbs convinced Fornell's team to visit Burnett in his hospital room and go over Maryland sentencing laws for menacing by stalking, along with attempted assault of a minor. Up to five years for the stalking alone, since he'd violated the restraining order that Holly filed. Luckily for all involved Burnett turned out to be a Grade A coward, especially after his beatdown from an underaged girl. Before they left the room he dropped his charges against the mystery girl, promised he understood all of the unfortunate things that would happen to him if he continued to harass an FBI witness, not to mention his own wife, and signed a statement effectively saying he'd slipped on a banana peel.

Gray was released, since Fornell hadn't actually gotten around to filing the arrest papers. Tobias claimed Gibbs owed him beer for a year.

It was possible Gibbs would actually buy the man a few.

Holly must have asked after Gray because she and the kid left the elevator together once he was cleared. Gibbs thought about tailing them, or Gray at least, but decided to cut them off in the deserted lobby instead. Outside the doors the sun peeked low and red over the horizon, bathing them in pink light.

"Breakfast?"

Holly looked him over. Grinned. "It's a little early for steak."

"How about steak omelets?"

"Hm. Do you make em with beer?"

"Could do."

She turned to the kid. "What do you say, Gray?"

Gibbs watched him slip close enough to give her a fast and loose one-armed hug, the sort of thing football players did when they were feeling sentimental. A "see you" and he was through the doors, limping away at a pretty good clip.

Holly looked back at Gibbs, politely unsure. "Okay if it's just the two of us?"

Not really.

"Yeah, course." He escorted her to her car.

**x**

She sliced mushrooms while he cracked eggs.

"What're you doing for Fornell?"

She frowned down at the razor-sharp knife, falling through mushrooms like they weren't even there. "I've never worked with him directly. But I gather he's part of an FBI team that has interest in some of my former clients. Where did you get this knife? It's fantastic."

"My grandfather. Interest?"

She scraped the mushrooms to the side and started in on the bell pepper. "They bring them in on prostitution. Open up their bank accounts and find all sorts of . . . interesting things."

Gibbs nodded. Fornell said they'd been nailing some real bigwigs for money laundering, extortion, bribery – all the usual white collar stuff. It was the same thing, basically, that he'd used Holly for at NCIS in going after a murderer. Two murderers.

"Sounds familiar."

She smiled, all irony and acceptance. "It does, doesn't it? I suppose I should thank you for giving me a new career."

"You can make a career out of that?"

Holly shrugged, unbearably elegant even standing at his kitchen counter, wielding his grandfather's knife. "If you're not too picky about payment. I got a reduction in sentence and dinner from you," she grinned. "Since they've run out of sentence-time to reduce and I'm not interested in dinner with any of them the FBI actually agreed to pay."

He doubted they offered her all that much, but then, the former Madame Snow didn't really need to make much. She might have been broke when she started out in her chosen field, but she was loaded now. Of course the FBI would levy some hefty fines as well as prison time against the perps she brought in. Gibbs bet her information more than paid for itself.

He beat the eggs silently and threw in some hot sauce. Gray would've liked his omelets.

"You know, when I called my lawyer a year ago and told him that you'd offered me a deal he didn't believe it. He thought I had the wrong Gibbs."

Gibbs grunted, rummaging in the cupboard for another pan.

"When he realized I had the right Gibbs he insisted that you were famous for never offering anyone a deal. Not anyone. He thought it must be some sort of ruse on your part. Claimed you were 'devious.'"

Gibbs grinned at the eggs.

"Then I called him a few months later to say you'd offered another deal, this one to reduce my already 'easy' sentence. He asked me if you were a client."

He barked out a laugh and she smiled, pleased. "I told him he'd know better than I would, since my business files are now in his business files."

The diced pepper joined the mushrooms in a sizzling pan. "Of course my defense attorney doesn't know about my role in the clinic," she pointed out casually. "Not many people do."

He shrugged.

"That's all I get?" She ate a crisp sliver of pepper and he had to look away. "Come on. How'd you know?"

She leaned against the counter, watching him closely. Confident and relaxed and way too sharp.

He remembered meeting her that first time. Offering the first deal. She'd said she was good at reading people and he figured she probably was.

"You meet all kinds of people as an agent," he said, vague and off-hand. Pouring the eggs into a skillet. "End up knowing all sorts of things."

"Mm." She watched as he added seasoning and put the dirty mixing bowl in the sink. "You know, a few years ago the clinic got a call from a staff psychologist at your agency. She said NCIS had found almost forty Chinese schoolgirls who'd been kidnapped and prepped to be sold into slavery in the US. The therapist wanted to know if we had the ability to take on the entire group until the legal tape holding up their return home could be unraveled."

Gibbs dropped in chunks of steak, a sprinkle of cheese, then the butter-sauteed vegetables and folded over the omelet. Definitely not a Ducky approved breakfast.

"It was a legitimate question for a therapist to ask," Holly went on. "Not many private clinics could handle an influx like that, especially on short notice. But I got the impression there was more to it. That we were being scoped out." She paused. "So I looked into the agency, and then the investigation and the team that made the request."

Gibbs turned to look at her when that registered. Faint surprise in his eyes.

She laughed softly. "I guess we scoped each other out. I did wonder if you knew about my role there when you offered such a very nice deal, but I couldn't figure out how that was possible."

He got out some plates. "When we brought in the Chinese girls our director referred us to your clinic. No one else could handle that many Cantonese-speaking victims without breaking our health services budget for a year. You guys were highly recommended and practically free in comparison, but your sources of funding were hard to trace." He shrugged again. "Didn't really make sense."

"So you investigated."

"Yep."

"You must have been determined. My involvement is extremely . . . discreet."

Gibbs threw a funny look her way at that.

Holly idly ate another bell pepper stick. She'd kept a stash. "Infamous Madame sponsoring a clinic specializing in what we specialize in – some might see it as inappropriate, or a stunt. It could hurt the clinic's reputation. So I'm an anonymous benefactor." She eyed him. "Usually."

He flipped the omelet onto a plate and cut it down the middle. Benefactor wasn't the word. Holly bankrolled the entire operation, and more. She helped to counsel battered women, arrange emergency housing, on-call services, translators - whatever was needed. She had connections, and she used them. Recruited and paid for the best staff available. She ran the damn thing.

And she'd never mentioned it. Not to him or to the NCIS legal team during the deal negotiation. Not at her sentencing, when it almost certainly would have held sway with the judge. Not even when she'd fielded calls from the clinic right in front of him.

"We have our ways."

Not all of them exactly legal. Gibbs had been hellbent on making sure those girls got the best care available, and that included keeping them away from anything hinky. Eventually McGee hacked into the clinic's financial records and traced the bulk of the funding, through multiple accounting firms and banks, back to Holly. Gibbs would never forget the look on the probie's face when they'd realized who Daddy Warbucks really was.

He set a plate down in front of her and pulled out a chair for himself. "You've helped a lot of people."

"So have you," she smiled easily.

He'd eaten half of the food in front of him before he spoke again. "Did you tell Gray that I saved your life?"

" . . . Yes?"

"You used my name, specifically?"

She frowned at his serious look and sipped from the water she'd brought in from the kitchen. "Was I not supposed to do that?"

Gibbs shook his head. "No, it's . . . doesn't matter."

Her fork paused in midair. Too sharp, he reminded himself.

"Oh no. Is that how you know him? He didn't – did he track you down to thank you?"

Gibbs shrugged.

A bubble of low laughter. "Wow. It never occurred to me . . . " She narrowed her eyes. "That doesn't sound like him, actually." She looked at him expectantly while he kept his eyes on his rapidly emptying plate. "Well. Cass could have put him up to it, I guess."

"You're sure she's alright?"

"Yes. She's fine."

Gibbs nodded.

"Do you know how Gray found you?" she ventured. "I don't think I mentioned NCIS."

"Do you know Trent Kort?"

She paused, flipping through the enormous Roladex that must be filed away in her mind. "Doesn't sound familiar. Is that who introduced you?'

Gibbs nodded.

"A visitor at the clinic?"

"He's an agent."

Holly immaculately speared and ate a chunk of steak, her look distracted. "Could he have told Gray about Burnett's record?"

Gibbs considered that. "Yeah. He could have."

But Holly said the kids seemed to peg Burnett as dangerous two weeks ago. Kort was still undercover in South Africa two weeks ago.

Would Kort have been able to get and relay the information? Gray made it sound like he had no contact at all, even when he was shot . . .

She eyed him. "I'm not getting the full story here, am I?"

Gibbs hauled himself back to the present. "Long story. Listen." He flexed his hands, making the extra effort to choose the right words. She was an independent woman, but not pathologically so. Not like the kid. "If Burnett bothers you again - if anyone bothers you again, or the kids, you call me."

Her face set, a bit. That last part might have been too close to an order. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, Gibbs. But my safety isn't your - "

"No," he agreed. "But Gray's is, and it looks like he's involving himself in any threat to you. Cassie too."

"Why not let local police handle it?" she challenged mildly.

"Because that worked so well last night?"

Her eyes left his, and she frowned out the front window. "I have private security at the clinic, actually. It just happened so fast. I never imagined Cass – " she paused. "But I should have. Gray was injured and vulnerable already, he's been limping for weeks, and if she knew Burnett was violent . . ." she trailed off. "Too many factors backing her into a corner. I just didn't see it coming."

He knew Cassie got nervous in corners. He wouldn't have predicted this either. "She attacked him?"

"Several times." Holly cleared her throat. "The first you could call self-defense. Maybe. The rest . . . We had to pull her off him."

"You think she'll be a danger to anyone else?"

Holly didn't answer for awhile. "Hopefully not." She looked him over then. "You don't know Gray because he wanted to say thank you, do you."

He brushed that off, leaned forward slightly. "What about him? You think he's alright?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"I know some of his history," he said simply. More than enough to know why he ended up at that clinic. And just enough of the present to realize that Holly had better insight on this than he did.

"Then you know why I can't discuss it."

Gibbs nodded. And waited, eyes locked on hers.

She huffed a little laugh, but her face quickly fell back to serious. "Your cases are usually over when you catch whoever it is you're looking for. But you know it's not the same for the victims. For the survivors. It's not that simple."

He waited for her to go on. She didn't.

_You can't run from this_, the kid said.

Gibbs knew it all too well.

**x**

He got the call almost two months later, a Tuesday in the dead of February. They met that afternoon on the usual park bench, one overlooking the Mall.

"Gibbs. If we must meet in person I prefer an indoor rendezvous for the months that hell actually freezes over."

He couldn't resist. "Shorty. Used to warmer climates?"

Kort rolled his eyes. Sipped from the steaming cup of . . . whatever that was in his hands.

Gibbs sat on the bench next to him.

Kort was usually the one who got things moving, who did the talking. But Gibbs didn't usually have so many glaring questions. "When's he coming in?"

"Tomorrow night, 0120 if the transport is on time."

The CIA was handling the informant's flight from South Africa to DC, along with the two grunts under arrest. Kort would pick them up and bring them to NCIS, and Gibbs and the team would secure them. Interrogation would begin the next day, but not until early evening. After school let out.

Gibbs fiddled with the loose change in the pocket of his coat.

He didn't really understand what was happening with Kort, and it made him wary. Sometimes it seemed like he would do whatever was necessary to protect Gray, and other times it was like he could care less. How could he have sent him to Colombia after Gibbs? Or let him run off with no backup when Gray was chasing Diego? But that day in the bullpen, when Gibbs and Kort fought . . . it was like they were _both_ enraged with the situation. And going over it again in his mind Gibbs couldn't help but remember that it was a difference in method that finally made them tear into each other. Not different goals.

There was too much that didn't add up.

_Shorty says he's good for you . . ._ "You told the kid I was good for him."

Kort looked out over the Mall, all white snow and blue water. A few dark paths covered with people bundled in winter coats, enjoying the winter sun. "Yes."

"Why?"

Kort glanced at him, puzzled. "Because you are?"

He raised an amused eyebrow at Gibbs' suspicious look, turned away to watch the people again. "That surprises you? You're famous for being good with children, Gibbs. I had it from no less than three agencies. Scared, grieving, whatever it may be. They all come around for you. So I'm told."

Gibbs considered that. "Checked out my babysitting skills when you were looking for someone to take over with Gray, huh?"

Kort shrugged.

"You were really willing to die to get this informant?" Gibbs said skeptically. He just couldn't swallow that. Kort always looked after number one.

Kort sat back, waved an impatient hand as he squinted into the sun. He seemed preoccupied, and not at all interested in answering personal questions. When he spoke his voice was cold, and oddly dark. "We could die crossing the street, Gibbs. I'd much rather go bringing the Caleras down."

The hairs on the back of Gibbs' neck stood up.

"Risking your life, not to mention your career . . ." That was personal. "What'd they do to you, Trent?"

The voice didn't change at all. "I brought you in to be Gray's friend, Gibbs. Not mine."

"Well, you miscalculated. Gray isn't really a kid in anything but age. And he sure as hell doesn't want to be my friend."

Kort frowned down at his impeccable gray wool coat. Lazily picked at some imaginary lint. "What are you on about, Gibbs. You've been his knight in shining armor these past months."

"The kid hates heroics, Kort. Not to mention cops and the military. He'd probably spit in a knight's face."

The other man smirked into his cup. "Well, there is that."

"Yeah. Your influence?"

"Not at all."

"Whose then?"

Gibbs didn't really need to know. He was just curious. Curious about what made Gray. Curious about what Kort would tell him. Curious about how civil they were going to be. Kort didn't seem at all bothered that the last time they'd seen each other they'd beaten one another to a pulp. In fact, he was unusually relaxed. Maybe his boss at the CIA was right. Maybe Kort only trusted the people he antagonized.

Or maybe he'd come to the same conclusion Gibbs had - that they'd punched each other because the ones they were really after were still out of reach.

"The Caleras brainwash the children they conscript with heroics, along with narcotics. They're not a drug lord's army - they're freedom fighters, patriots." Kort waved another hand, faint disgust coming through in his tone. "Sacrifice for the cause. Death before dishonor. God and country. Rewards if you fight well and do as you're told. Punishments if you don't. You were a Marine, Gibbs. You work with Mossad." The disgust on that last was more than faint. "You know how it works."

"Marines don't recruit children. So Gray didn't buy it?"

Kort turned the cardboard cup in his hand, gaze steady on the horizon. "No. He's too intelligent to buy much of anything."

Is that what they thought it was? Intelligence?

Gibbs waited, wondering if Kort would fill in any blanks. Surprisingly the man went on.

"I think he remembered enough of his life before, realized that what he was being told by the cartel didn't match up with the outside world. His mother may have warned him about them." A shrug. "Or he was born suspicious. It's a part of him now, however it started."

"He trusts you."

The man glanced at him, expressionless. "In some ways. I've known him for many years, Gibbs. And I pulled him out of that hell."

Gibbs steeled himself. He wasn't sure if Kort knew that Holdner had told him more about his past than his nickname. "It's not just that. You have a similar background."

Kort was quiet for a minute. Gibbs wondered if he would deny it, or ignore him.

He didn't.

"Holdner puts too much importance on my circumstances when we met. He's grown accustomed to thinking of my background as . . . some exotic asset." Something hard passed over Kort's face. "It was an asset, in Colombia. But Gray is in a different place now. The same rules don't apply. He needs to interact with people who have normal lives. Remember what that is."

"You don't have a normal life?"

"Not particularly."

Gibbs tapped his fingers together. "Holdner seems to think you wanted another protector in place for Gray in case you didn't come back from South Africa. I'm still not too sure what Gray expected to get out of this."

Kort didn't say anything at all.

The wind felt a little colder than it had a moment ago.

He wouldn't have - but then why - ?

"Could Gray have known? That I was supposed to be . . . that you were looking for your own replacement?"

"Yes. I told him."

He told him.

_They'll come after everyone close to you_, the kid said._ But you already know that - you just don't give a fuck. . ._

_They'll destroy everyone you ever met. They all get to die brave for you._

_Doesn't matter who gets killed along the way, who gets left behind._

_Who gets left behind._

Gibbs felt like he was about to fall off the bench. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I told him I wouldn't lie to him at the beginning. It's the only way to get anywhere with him, if you haven't noticed."

Gibbs was speechless.

"I'd no doubt you were good for it, even if he hadn't rescued you," Kort shrugged, cool and faraway. "And the informant is worth it. What does it matter now?"

Gibbs couldn't help a bitter laugh. Gray seemed to trust one guy. Kort. But Kort tried to pass him along so he could go off and get himself killed. No wonder the kid didn't trust them, wanted them all to piss off. No wonder he'd been willing to . . . to get himself killed, for them, in Colombia. Talk about leadership by example.

Sure, the two of them didn't lie to Gray. But what was honesty worth to a kid in that position? He'd still be left high and dry. Left behind.

Not that it was honesty that had gotten Gibbs anywhere anyway. "The only way to get anywhere with him. You're wrong there. Blood loss and blackmail work wonders," he muttered.

"Only if he allows them to. You don't lie to him either. . . . Or to me." So neutral he almost buried the surprise under it.

Gibbs shook his head. Kort needed to get it through his thick skull that the kid didn't want a replacement. And certainly not Gibbs. "He doesn't care whether I'm straight with him or not. He won't deal with me. Not willingly."

Kort was unmoved. "He came to your home when he was injured. You got his life story. I only know most of that because I was there, Gibbs. What more do you want?"

Besides knowing the kid was in trouble_ before_ he got shot? Gibbs clasped his hands together. "He answered a few questions. Because he was in agony and exhausted and I interrogated him anyway."

"The kind of pain that you're describing has no affect on him." Kort hunted for more lint and flicked it into the wind. "Not in an interrogation."

Because he'd been . . . trained. That only made it more horrifying.

"Well, futility does," Gibbs countered. "I told him I'd trace Cassie's cell and their car if he didn't tell me what I wanted to know. I taunted him with what I already knew about his life in Colombia. Got him to cough up a few details by threatening to find out _more_ on my own."

Kort laughed. It sounded like a cough. "Trace her cell? Come on, Gibbs."

"What?" he snapped. "She called out from my house - "

"They use black market burn phones, untraceable, and replace them frequently."

That brought him up short. They were that cautious?

"The car?"

"Rental, under a false name, I'm sure, with the GPS disabled. And they vary their routes, avoid main drags and public cameras." Kort smiled, so grim it looked like a frown. "Maybe there is a way to trace them. But if it exists I don't know it."

Gibbs sat back on the bench and let his eyes drift to the horizon. Gray hadn't really been backed into a corner, then.

He'd _let_ Gibbs in. Sort of.

Gibbs put that aside for later. That Kort couldn't trace them was disturbing. Gibbs had just assumed . . . "You don't know where to find them?"

"I know about as much as you do."

Holy shit. That couldn't be right. "That would be nothing, Kort. How do you contact them then?"

Kort frowned. Tossed a questioning glance his way. "I know where they live. Their schools. But I don't track their movements."

"That's a hell of a lot more than I've got. Never tailed him."

Kort raised his eyebrows and thoughtfully sipped from his cup. Then he stood up, reaching into his pocket and handing Gibbs a little memory gadget smaller than his pinky finger. Ten weeks worth of surveillance in Colombia.

"Gray told me you knew where to find him if you needed to. That was before I left for South Africa."

Gibbs looked at him, blank.

"Maybe you know more than you think you do," Kort said wryly, and turned away.

He watched the other man walk off, mind churning. How could he - ?

Son of a bitch.

Gibbs would kill them.

* * *

><p><em>an: The case that Holly mentions involving human slavery and a lot of kidnapped Chinese girls is part of Season 4's "Once a Hero," the one episode where Agent Lee got to kick ass. In the Gray Scale universe this is the case that led Gibbs to investigate Holly's clinic. This chapter and the previous one also included some allusions to Season 7's 'Guilty Pleasures' and 'Jet Lag,' the only two episodes to feature Holly Snow. In my mind she runs a clinic - but seriously, who was she texting in 'Guilty Pleasures'? And what could have possessed her to leave halfway through dinner with Gibbs?_

_All line stealing in this chapter, however, is from season 6, and another excellent Kort-isode, "Broken Bird":_

_Kort: Some day they're going to put a plaque on this bench with both our names, Gibbs._

_Gibbs: Mr. Kort. The agency's keeping you local._

_Kort: Travel is touchy at the moment. I made a few enemies overseas._

_Gibbs: What, with your winning personality?_

_Kort: When you're finally over there at charm school let me know._

_Gibbs: I need a favor._

_Kort: Gibbs. I don't like you._

_Gibbs: That's okay, I don't like you either. Not trading on kindness._

_Kort: But we are trading?_

_Gibbs: CIA aided the Mujahadeen resistance against the Soviets._

_Kort: In the eighties. I was running track at Oxford, not covert missions._

_Gibbs: Dig._

_Kort: Where?_

_Gibbs: Shaheizey refugee camp, Pakistani border, summer, 1980. Whatever you got._

_Kort: This is going to cost you, Gibbs._

_. . ._

_Kort: I hope Dr. Mallard knows how good of a friend you are to him._

_Gibbs: Two way street, Trent._

_Kort: I don't think they ever clean anything out of the archives at Langley. I had to go through a hundred boxes to find that. . . . I've opted not to call in a favor of my own. I prefer to stockpile for a rainy day._

_Gibbs: I'm good for it._

_Kort: No doubt._


	46. Joyride

**Chapter 46: Joyride**

"That is disgusting."

"And you're a broken record."

Ziva's nose went up a millimeter, the way it always did when she was about to be smarter than everyone else in the room. "Even when people actually played records that idiom made no sense. A broken record would not – "

Tony was busy, at that exact moment, stuffing the tail-end of a meatlover's-hold-the-lettuce-extra-special-sauce sandwich into his mouth. But he couldn't let an insult to the American language go. That wasn't how the David-Dinozzo game worked.

He interrupted with a delighted, superior sigh, and took the opportunity to speak, extra disgustingly, with his mouth full.

"Even in your broken recording about the broken record idiom you're a broken record. From now on, Agent David, you're Agent Da-Broken Record."

"Whatever."

Ziva turned her attention back to her paperwork, superior at the very least in her ability to actually focus on work.

A squelching sound seemed to erupt from the direction of Tony's lunch.

"But if you're going to order that disgusting sandwich every Tuesday then you could at least eat it over a plate! You're splatching the requisition forms with –" her brows came together suspiciously, " – 'special sauce.'"

"Splattering," Tony mumbled, and chewed. "Or splashing. Smearing, even." He smiled helpfully, and saucy bits of excess food teetered precariously from the edges of his mouth. "'Splatching' may be a word in some poor, backwater Eastern European language that you speak, but here in the United – "

He broke off as she dug into her pocket to answer her phone. But Ziva was still looking right at him with her sparkling dangerous ninja eyes, daring him to keep making fun of her language skills, or anything about her, really, even as she spoke politely into the receiver.

"This is Agent David."

_Agent Da-Broken Record_, Tony mouthed, and picked up a big paperclip he'd folded into a serviceable slingshot.

He loaded it with a nice stretchy rubber band, grinning unrepentantly at Ziva even as he aimed the projectile at McGee. He may, at the moment, be teasing the woman in front of him. But Dinozzos don't do suicidal, and if Ziva decided to return fire with even a simple rubber band, or god forfend a paperclip, he'd probably be decapitated.

But Ziva stiffened and sat forward, eyes suddenly serious, and by the time the rubber band was in the air Tony had already forgotten about it. She stared at him for a long moment, still listening to her phone, then swiveled toward her gun drawer and took out her Sig. Tony stood up.

"Yes," she said quickly, still talking to the phone. "We're on our way."

She shoved her weapon into its holster, snatched up her coat with her free hand and tore around her desk. McGee and Tony reached for their own gear and ran after her.

"Where are you?"

And then Ziva ground to a halt, halfway to the elevator. "That is – Cassie, that is not wise. Just tell me where you are."

Tony was already at the elevator, pressing the button.

"No!" she said suddenly, to Cassie apparently, and was moving forward again. The doors slid open and they all piled in, Ziva smashing the parking level button with the flat of a fist, Tony bouncing on the balls of his feet as he listened to one-half of a confusing conversation.

He hoped that whatever they were driving into, their usual Tuesday allotment of ammunition would be enough to handle it. But Cassie Gray calling Ziva's personal cell didn't really bode well, did it?

" . . . Alright."

You'd have to know Ziva like the team did to hear the suppressed urgency buzzing through the bottom of that one word, like the wind would set a hire-wire humming.

"I promise. None of us will. Now please tell me – "

She fell into silence, nodding to herself, listening hard. The elevator doors finally sprang open and the three of them burst from the metal box like daredevils shot from a cannon, sprinting as a unit for the agency cars.

"Okay, we are on our way. Stay on the line with me, Cassie," Ziva said firmly, and Tony felt a breathless laugh shake his chest.

Because they were flat-out sprinting for the car now, feeling the weird charge of danger, of adrenaline in their hearts, and he was remembering that none of them were wearing vests so he broke for the trunk where they sat folded while McGee tossed the car keys to Ziva and she threw her cell phone back at the probie, and they were all feeling the weight of their guns, and how puny their own skins, because there was a very nasty cartel out there and Tony was pretty sure they were running full tilt right for it and even in the face of all of that Ziva still sounded like she was up at her desk, sitting in her swivel chair, passing the afternoon by watching him fling rubber bands.

They piled into the car and McGee punched the speaker button on Ziva's cell, flicking the volume up to max.

"Cassie?" Ziva called it back over her shoulder as the Charger squealed out of the Navy Yard. McGee leaned forward, pushing valiantly against the unpredictable g-force of Ziva's driving to hold the phone up between them.

There was no response, and McGee grimaced as Ziva turned her eyes away from the road to face her phone. "Cassie - Cop! Talk to us!"

Ziva wove around cars dawdling toward the eastbound thruway onramp and gunned past a stop sign to merge, horn blaring, into mid-afternoon traffic. Finally she swore, a colorful barrage of language and sharp sound. Whether it was aimed at the other drivers or at her silent phone was hard to say.

"They have picked up a tail," she informed them tightly. "An aggressive one. They tried to force Cassie's car off the road – Tony, the flashing light – "

Tony slid down his window with one hand and reached into the glove compartment with the other to pull out the rarely used cop-car flashy-light, slapping it onto the roof of the Charger in one smooth movement. They didn't need local leo's on their trail for what was sure to be an incident, provided they all survived, wiped clean of existence by the CIA.

"Ziva?" The girl's voice finally came through the cell phone speaker, clear and calm.

"Yes – go ahead."

"Hold on," Cassie said immediately, and was gone again.

And then . . .

All quiet on the cell phone front.

Tony actually shifted to stare, momentarily, at Ziva's silent cell.

The hell? Was the kid taking another call or what?

"Where are we going, Ziva?" Perfectly pleasant.

"She said they're on 66, heading west out of the city," Ziva was driving so fast that merely talking felt like a death-defying distraction. "They're moving, obviously. We need to know where they are exactly and meet – "

"Ziva?" Cassie again.

"Yes, we're here."

"Two of our other cars say they have tails as well. That's four – "

The agents winced as a high-pitched scream came through the cell. Not human though, it was machine, like the thin wail of abused metal. And then a dull slamming sound, followed by a grunt.

"Cassie?" Ziva called sharply. "Are you alright?"

Faint, staccato swearing in Spanish.

And then, incredibly . . . laughter. Young, male laughter.

That was cut off almost immediately by much louder, clearer swearing. Apparently Cassie's not-too-flattering assessment of the laughers.

"Sorry." She was back a moment later, tense and low. "We are fine. I was saying, we think there are four tails total. I see two on us and there is one each on our other cars, across the city. They must have followed us from school."

From school? Kids in all the cars, then.

Tony already had his own cell out, and now he pressed the speed dial for Gibbs.

"Cassie, this is Agent Dinozzo. Tell us where the other cars are and we'll have backup – " he paused as Ziva reached over, ninja movement a blur, and ripped his cell phone from his hand. She slammed down a thumb on the glowing red done-talking-now tab, ending the call to Gibbs. And possibly the entire working-life of that mechanism.

" - Agents meet them," he finished slowly, and stared at his partner as she nonchalantly tossed his phone down into the gap between her door and her seat, hopelessly out of reach even for Tony's long limbs.

He opened his mouth to say, you know,_ what the hell_, but Ziva's momentary distraction at a hundred-and-five miles an hour had put them way too close to a battered old station wagon driven by an even older blue-haired granny.

Tony and McGee clutched the handles on their doors as all three of them were thrown forward and to the left by Ziva's brake-and-swerve maneuver. Tony doubted the granny even registered the whoosh of their Charger as it swept around her.

Cassie's voice, certainly, was lost in the thrum of the engine as Ziva picked up speed again, heading toward the 66.

He cleared his throat, mostly to get his heart out of it, and leaned a bit toward McGee's hand, still holding Ziva's cell up between them all. "What was that?"

"I said no backup," Cassie repeated. "Just you."

He twisted in his seat to tell McGee to call Gibbs.

"And definitely do not call Agent Gibbs," Cassie went on, tone distracted. There was mumbling from her end, male voices in the background of the cell phone's speaker.

Tony paused to stare again at Ziva's cell, and then up at Ziva herself, who was shaking her head, lips pressed together in a disapproving line.

What had she said in the squad room?

_Cassie, that is not wise . . . No . . . Alright . . . I promise . . ._

Right.

"Okay. Well, Cassie, we're going to need other agents, _in other cars_, to handle three separate tails." He kept his voice very calm, and wondered what could have happened to make her doubt Gibbs. "You . . . look, I know you don't know me, but you can trust Gi – "

"This isn't a debate, Agent Dinozzo." Tony's eyebrows went up at the no-nonsense tone. The girl was channeling a school marm, or at the very least the director of an agency. "You can't tell Gibbs, and bringing in other agents just risks adding to the – "

She broke off to the distinct thumping sound of a body crashing around in the interior of a car. "_Care chimba, cuidado!_" she yelled.

There was a confusion of noise, voices – "_Cállate!_"

Silence.

And then, once more into the phone," – to the leak we have obviously already got!" she hissed.

Ziva caught his look and shrugged, eyebrows up. She gestured with a spare hand to the road in front of her with a _and you have a better idea?_ look.

"I don't know exactly where they are," she whispered. "She gave me the thruway and direction they are traveling but that was ten minutes ago! She refused to have Gibbs – "

"Look," Cassie broke in, words fast and clipped. "Gray thinks it will be smart to _talk_ to these people, people who are trying to _run us off the road_, which means that both we and they need to stay alive long enough for us to talk to them. Fine. So I am calling _you_, not Gibbs,_ you_, for _help_. Okay? But Gray is not fucking well in this car and he is not the boss of me anyway and I will be just as happy to shoot out their tires and watch these motherfuckers _roast _in a goddamn _pileup_," her voice was going up, anger and aggression and probably fear finally bleeding through, "and I do not give a damn about whatever _innocent motorists_ _would fucking burn with them_ – "

"Alright!" Tony called. "Okay. I won't call Gibbs. Nobody is calling anyone, Cassie. No backup." God help them. Tony could see the end now. Gibbs would find out eventually, of course, and then Gibbs was going to lose his mind, and kill them all in a rage-induced blackout. "Now where are you?"

There was a long pause, the loud rev of engines on both sides of the line the only sound. "Don't ever lie to me," she said finally, voice clear and calm again, and cold.

No ma'am.

"I'm not, Cassie. I'm not lying to you."

No pause, this time. "We're on 66, westbound, heading toward 81 south."

"What about the other cars, Cass? You said there are two others with tails? Where are they?" He twisted around to snatch Tim's cell phone from him mid-dial, ignoring his meep of despair as Tony ended the call – the number was Abby's, he noted – and tossed it down toward his feet. Ziva grinned distractedly, swerving to an exit. Cassie said they were headed to the 81. They'd passed the merge for 81 south almost two minutes back.

"Yeah, they're headed to the 81 too." Cassie definitely sounded more collected, reassured now that she had that promise from them. "We'll join up to put the tails altogether and then draw them off onto one car."

Holy hell.

"Cassie," Tony began, tone reasonable. "That's not a good idea. If you have the other cars head to the Navy Yard – "

"No," Cassie broke in, just as polite, if rushed. "We'd be cornered there, flushed out, and our contact with you would be totally exposed too. Gray thinks that is what they want and I agree. These people, whoever they are, they aren't trying to kill us. They want us to stop – to pullover. Maybe to give ourselves away. So we'll let them stop one of us in a neutral place that gives nothing away and we will get to talk to them, find out who they are, while our other cars escape them. We all get something we want. You will hang back and observe, surveillance, and come in as backup if things get hot. Okay? We are two miles out from the 81 exit," she added. "Going . . . eighty-five an hour."

The team's car had passed that sign already. They were ahead of Cassie's car then, almost to the 81 merge, the traffic around them more congested than ever.

Ziva slowed, maneuvering into one of the right-hand lanes and holding the car steady at sixty-five. After the last fifteen minutes at over a hundred it felt like they weren't even moving.

"Yeah," Tony tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, he really did. "That's one way to look at it. Or they could be herding you together, so you'll all be in one place," _for the massacre_, "or they could be letting you drive out of the city so that there'll be less people around," _to witness the killing spree._ "At the Navy Yard we can prote -"

"Do you have one of those cop-lights on top of your car?" Cassie demanded suddenly. Her tone wasn't exactly calm anymore. It had a distinct _you assholes_ flavor to it. "Get rid of it!"

Tony sighed. If they were surveillance in this game they'd need to play it stealthy, no obvious cop stuff. He put the window down and yanked in their tell-tale flashing light. At least they weren't quite so flagrantly violating traffic laws at this stage.

"Gibbs is going to find out about this," he said, not caring if the bossy girl heard him. "And he's going to filet me."

"Yes," McGee muttered emphatically. "He's going to filet all of us. Dead."

But he'd already folded down the seat next to him and fished the bag of camera equipment out of the trunk. Cassie had mentioned surveillance. If there was one thing they'd gotten good at in the months since they'd begun stalking drug dealers it was surveillance. "You know Gibbs is – "

And at that exact moment a tinny rendition of _The Lone Ranger_ theme song erupted from the pocket of the driver-side door, as if speaking the name of Gibbs had called down his wrath.

Tim sat back, case made. Because, obviously, they'd been flying under Boss radar for a grand total of fifteen minutes and Gibbs _already_ _was_.

Ziva hesitated only a moment, then dug Tony's phone out from the crevice she'd stashed it in and shoved it back toward him. Lying to the boss was a very bad idea, true, but not answering a Gibbs call was an even worse one. And Tony had already promised the girl. Tony's promises were good.

Cassie said she didn't want them to tell Gibbs, Tony reminded himself, not that she didn't trust Gibbs, or that she thought he was the leak. There could be a . . . perfectly reasonable explanation for keeping him out of the loop, for the moment at least. Gibbs was known to the cartel after all. Maybe he'd somehow, inadvertently, been the source of the tail?

And anyway, Tony'd given his word to the girl for a reason. The simple truth was that she knew more about the current situation than they did, and they absolutely needed her cooperation, her trust, if they were going to be able to offer any protection at all. So they'd play it by her rules, as far as they could.

Tony slumped into his seat as Ziva coasted through the merge onto 81, one eye on Cassie's black SUV, clearly visible now in the rearview mirror, and answered his phone.

"Hey boss."

"Dinozzo. Where is my team."

Damn. He was already back at the Navy Yard.

"Got a tip from the Fifth District, boss, they took down one of the dirtbags in AK's crew." Tony winced. The team hadn't really bothered with AK's crew since they flipped AK. "And what with Kort's informants coming in soon we thought we'd, you know, check it out. How is Mr. Kort, anyway?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes, glancing from the lunch debris scattered over his agents' desks to the windows, where the sun shone beautifully. It was the first nice day they'd had in a week.

"Precisely, Dinozzo. The scumbags are coming in tomorrow night, I'm looking at a pile of case files that have yet to be cleared from your desk, and my entire team is out for a joyride!"

Gibbs' hearing was superb, and those were traffic noises in the background of Dinozzo's cell. Calm traffic noises – McGee must be driving, for once. "I have a meeting with Vance and then with Legal," Gibbs growled. Not a good day. "I don't care how late you three have to stay tonight, I want the decks cleared before you show up tomorrow, you got me?"

"Yeah, bo – " Tony broke off, and looked at his phone. The call was over.

"Gibbs says hi," he announced.

"_Leazazel_," Ziva swore, and now that she was only going seventy-five turned around completely to speak toward her phone. "Cassie, this is not smart. We need – "

"Holy – !"

McGee broke off when Tony grabbed the wheel. "Ziva," he nodded toward the front. "Would you please – ?"

She rolled her eyes at their stodgy American insistence on actually looking where you were going, but she did snap back around to watch the road.

"Cassie," she tried again. "Gibbs can help us – "

"There's an exit thirty miles up for Winchester," Cassie said, ignoring them all. "Our most vulnerable two cars will go in first, then my car, then the four tails. It's a one-lane ramp with an overpass, we should be able to block them in there, with you above. If you get there first and stay down they probably won't see you. You'll have good cover. Can you find it?"

Tony drew a long, reluctant breath even as he pulled up Google Maps on his phone. It wasn't like Gibbs or any NCIS backup would be able to make it to the exit in time to help them, even if they called them now. And it didn't sound like Cassie was going to back out of this crazy plan whether Tony's team decided to play along or not. There was nothing to do but hang back and offer surveillance like the girl asked.

Tony's perfectly normal Tuesday, which he always looked forward to as two-for-one-with-special-sauce days, had turned into anything but. In fact this was a risky sandwich, right here.

"Cassie, this is . . ." _insane_, Tony's mind supplied, " . . . a dangerous plan," Ziva said into the gap. "If they do decide to attack we will not have enough agents or firepower to protect you. And we should call in reserve agents to at least follow your first two cars. What do you mean by vulnera – "

"They'll be fine," she said dismissively. "We're thirty miles out from the overpass, like I said. We'll try to cut our speed. Do you think you can make it in time?"

Tony sighed, staring at his tiny glowing map. "Yeah, we can make it. You're sure you'll be able to stop them in close to the bridge?"

Assuming the tails didn't just open fire this would all be useless if Cassie's car _and_ her pursuers didn't come to a stop in a good line of sight from the overpass.

"Yes."

Ziva considered not complicating an already complex situation with another variable, but Cassie sounded calm enough, and more information was usually better than less.

"Cassie," she said. "We're carrying pistols. We have a shotgun as well, but nothing accurate from far out. No rifles, no scopes."

"Yes, that's fine," Cassie said calmly. "I do not expect that we will be very far out. I know this exit."

Tony gave Ziva the directions and she rocketed off of the thruway and out onto a county road that ran almost parallel to the interstate, giving them a straight shot to the bridge.

He tossed a vest back to McGee and slipped on his own, wondering if Cassie's car was one of the good ones like the embassies had, with armor plating. Cass had said when all was said and done she would prefer to shoot out the tails' tires, so it seemed likely that she had a weapon at least.

He wondered if all of the kids inside her car were armed, and how well, and if that would even be a good thing. A shooting war on a narrow exit wouldn't be good for either side.

Especially not their side though, if it was four carloads for Team Tail against just Cassie's SUV and the three NCIS agents.

Tony wondered who was driving the SUVs for their side, and if the kids really had a chance in hell of drawing all four of the tails onto Cassie's car, and why it was her car that they considered the least vulnerable target.

He wondered if any of the people in the other two cars were armed. And if Gray was in one of them. As far as he could tell Gray was always armed.

Tony took the wheel for the few seconds that Ziva needed to pull on her own vest, and then checked his pistol.

"You got what you need, McGee?" McGee was the best at on-the-fly photos, hands down.

"Yeah."

Tim had taken the camera out of its case and slung it around his chest so it hung on the opposite side of his gun hand. Tony looked him over quickly, pretending to dig behind Ziva's seat for a water bottle. If anything happened to probie while they were off playing three musketeers on Tony's watch, after he'd _lied_ to the boss, Gibbs would just absolutely –

"I'm fine, Tony," McGee smirked, and took out his gun to flick off the safety.

"Course you are, probie-san." Tony grinned back.

They were more into the country now, with little traffic compared to what they'd faced earlier. There were no obstacles before them as they roared up to the bridge and then over it, Ziva summarily deciding to ditch the car on the far side.

The exit from the thruway ran below them, basically a stone rectangle with no lid. It was a narrow shooting gallery, one that would hold no escape for anyone caught there if it was blocked off with cars on either end.

The bridge itself had perfect cover. Thick, waist-high concrete barricades ran along the edges, complete with a few gaps that would let them see the action below without raising their heads up into view.

Ziva knew instantly that Cassie or maybe Gray had scouted and identified this spot as an ideal place to stage an ambush. But it was Tony and the team staging the ambush, now, and Cassie caught up in it, along with whoever else was in her car.

They informed Cassie over the phone that they were at the bridge. Tony positioned them in a spread along the edge closest to the thruway. McGee was off to the side, nearest to the car and hopefully with a good camera angle, sitting in front of a pretty good crumbly hole in the barrier. Ziva was in the center, with a decent gun angle no matter where the action ended up.

Tony hunkered down to the left, farthest from the car and closest to the narrow access point that would let him scramble down into the exit, if need be, to lend the kids a hand. Ziva definitely had the best endurance of them all, even if McGee was giving her a run for her money there, but Tony was still the fastest by a long shot in a sprint.

They huddled back around Ziva's cell as Cassie stayed on to confirm that she and the other cars had joined up, and that they were closing in on the exit, three miles out. Then two miles.

There were increasingly aggressive driving noises from the background of the cell, the SUV and its pursuers clearly traveling way too fast, jockeying for position on the road. It was a hell of a lot scarier to listen to on the bridge than it had been in the car, now that the team was totally still, sitting safe and helpless around the phone.

The noise got rougher, louder, more violent. And then Cassie informed them that she was going to hang up.

She hung up.

Tim and Tony sprinted back to their positions as Ziva set the phone to vibrate and shoved it into a pocket. She steadied her gun next to the peephole that offered her a clear view up the exit, and took a breath.

She needed to kick away her fury at whoever was chasing these children, and all the uncertainty about the plan. Those were indulgences, distractions. She needed to focus on keeping the team and the kids coming toward them safe – as safe as they could be. She breathed calmly, deeply, and diverted her attention away from her outrage, back to her physical senses, and her training.

She twisted to check their own six automatically, but there were no other cars on this lonely squat bridge, no indication of lurkers in the trees behind Tony or Tim, so she settled down and gazed, as they did now, toward the turnoff to the exit.

A red Prius coasted through below them, and then a silver pick-up.

Almost a minute passed with no traffic at all.

And then an enormous black SUV swerved onto the exit, two more following behind it, close and fast.

Just beyond them a dark sedan popped into view, so tight to the car in front of it that its nose almost looked wedged under the SUV's bumper. Three more sedans followed on its heels.

The lead vehicle ate up the ground, the heavy structure actually looking like it went airborne as it rocketed over a sudden drop in the road, its suspension smashing in on itself as it landed. The second and the third did the same, in quick succession. The shaking cars didn't appear to lose an ounce of speed as they roared toward the bridge.

McGee's eyes widened as the third SUV approached, close on the heels of the other two. That last one was supposed to be Cassie's car, but it didn't look like it was slowing down -

Only sixty yards out now, if that, the lead sedan just a few yards behind. They must be going a hundred, more than that –

Forty yards. Finally the first SUV was under them, disappearing with an angry growl through the tunnel formed by the bridge. The second roared through a moment later and was gone.

There was a little more distance between the second and the third, but only a little. Thirty-five yards. They weren't going to stop in time –

And then the tires squealed, and the front of the SUV lurched violently to the left, the entire car banking heavily forward. The turn seemed to play out in slow-motion, the heavy frame beginning to lean dangerously to its right side, still traveling eighty miles an hour, the thick wheels fighting the road, fighting to slow even as the body of the car rushed forward, and every muscle in Tim's body seized as he waited for it to flip.

But it didn't. Instead of rolling the big car began to skid diagonally across the asphalt, actually scraping a back corner against the old stone blocks of the walls leading up to the underpass, throwing up a shower of sparks.

The sedans smashed down their own brakes and fishtailed, tires smoking instantly. The agents on the bridge watched as the first in line managed to stay in the center of the road, and back just far enough to avoid the sliding, wildly braking SUV in front of them all. But the second and third sedans were caught off-guard, forced to brake even harder. Their tires seized, and for a few moments the drivers had no control. The cars drifted gently into the concrete leaders designed to funnel traffic under the bridge. Their driver's side fenders crumpled like aluminum foil before the cars jerked back toward the center of the road.

The SUV's diagonal finally became a complete horizontal as it jerked to a sudden stop just before the bridge. It stretched greedily across the road, driver's side closest to the pursuing cars. There would be no way to get past it on that narrow exit, not without a motorcycle or a tank.

Whoever was in the first two SUVs, they were safe now.

The four sedans littered the road, but it looked like everyone had survived without a pileup, miraculously.

And the SUV almost directly below him was a good one, Tony could tell. A huge, purring engine. Armored. With any luck that glass was bulletproof.

_Good girl, Cassie_, he thought. _That's good –_

And then the passenger door slipped open, almost directly below Tony, and a girl who must have been Cassie slid out.

_No_, Tony mouthed. But he stayed silent, and raised his gun.

She was mostly hidden by the tall vehicle where she was, but she stepped forward, until her upper body was just visible over the hood of the car.

She waited there. Low in her left hand, out of sight to anyone but the agents watching from above, she carried some kind of weapon. A stubby, lightweight assault rifle.

There was silence, utter stillness for a split-second, and then the front doors of the four sedans were thrown open and agents piled out to take cover behind them, four cars, eight agents, eight pistols aimed at Cassie's head.

The coordinated movement was familiar, engrained in his own body's memory, and that's when Tony's eyes went to the license plates, and he recognized the sedans, finally, as FBI cars.

* * *

><p><em>an: __I've once again attempted to insert some Spanish dialogue and Colombian swearing into this story, with only Google Translate and lists of dirty words from the Internet to light my monolingual way. Apologies to the language, and if any readers have corrections to offer I'd be most obliged! In the meantime, a glossary:_

_Care chimba, cuidado: Bastard, watch out._

_Cállate!: Shut-up!_


	47. The Federal Bureau of !

**Chapter 47: The Federal Bureau of %$#*!**

The FBI.

Tony searched the faces below him, stupid and frantic, for Fornell. For Sacks, or even Dargas. For anyone, really, that he could recognize, and make sense of. But at first glance he didn't know a single one of them.

No agent who actually understood what they were doing, who knew who these kids were, would risk exposing them with a chase like that.

Would they?

What had Cassie - ?

_These people, whoever they are, they aren't trying to kill us._

_They want us to stop. To pullover . . ._

Well, hell. She'd known it was law enforcement.

_To flush us out . . ._

_. . . Add to the leak we've obviously already got._

Dirty law enforcement, working with the cartel?

Or were the agents below him just confused?

Confused or not, that chase had been fierce, and now their aim was steady.

Fucking hell. She'd deliberately waited to tell Gibbs' team where she was, and what the plan would be, until it was too late to call in backup. Because who knew, now, what other Feds knew, or what they thought they did, and which ones would be on their side?

The situation below them was civilian, not military. The FBI had jurisdiction, had more pull in the civilian world than NCIS. The law would be on the _FBI's_ side.

McGee realized the same thing, at the exact same moment, through the viewfinder of his camera.

Who the pursuers were, and what it meant.

_You have got to be kidding me._ _Can't be right. A misunderstanding . . ._

Hopefully. He kept snapping anyway. From his position he had pretty good face shots of the men crouched behind car doors below him.

There was movement at one of the backdoors of the lead sedan and McGee focused there, getting a picture of the man climbing out of the car before his eyes had even registered the face. He was wearing a dark suit, and the face was familiar, he thought, from somewhere –

The man stepped casually around the FBI agent in front of him, around the open door, and moved forward a pace or two. His movements were elegant, relaxed and slow, gun concealed in a holster at his waist.

And then he smiled, and brushed the hair back from his eyes. Blue eyes.

It was Declan O'Donnell.

McGee let the camera slip from his fingers, and eased out his pistol.

The guy could have a vest under his suit jacket, easy. McGee steadied a shoulder against the concrete. Then he sighted carefully down the barrel until he was locked on the bridge of O'Donnell's nose, on the narrow bit right between the eyes.

And then he waited, and willed the man to make a move.

"_Cóptero._" O'Donnell was twenty, maybe thirty feet from Cassie, max. "_¿Es realmente usted?_"

She stared.

He put his hands in his pockets and ducked his head a little, still grinning. But the voice, when it came, was warm and sincere. "I can't believe it. You're alive after all." One of his hands came up a bit, but not to his gun. To his heart. "How wonderful."

The Irish accent was faint now, but still there somewhere. A lilt sliding just under the words.

The agents behind O'Donnell were silent and still.

What the hell were they doing?

"Diablo." Cassie actually sounded as young as she was. "You are a long way from home."

"Oh, child," O'Donnell said softly. "Home is where the heart is."

He came forward another half-step. Above him three agents adjusted their aim.

"No hug for your old man, _Cop_?"

It was a cold day, even with the bright sun. The stressed engines of the cars below them popped and sighed mechanically. The only sound, for long seconds, in that echoing exit.

" . . . Is my father here somewhere?"

"Now that hurts." O'Donnell shook his head sadly. "Is your mother still telling you those spiteful lies?"

Stillness as the agents on both sides watched, and listened.

"What do you want?" Cassie's voice low, holding onto steady by a thread.

"So many things. Too many to explain here. But you should know that I've been working with the FBI," the words slow and serious, full of kindness. "They've offered me their protection while in the United States, as you see. And do you know, it came to my attention that Daniel is here, and so Sean must be too, of course. I'd very much like to see them again."

A long pause, but Cassie was silent.

"Such a sad situation," O'Donnell went on. "Running from your home - that is no life for a child. I want to offer my assistance. I thought I'd meet them after school."

O'Donnell cocked his head, scanning the bridge above him, eyes sweeping over its shadowy chinks.

Tony readjusted his grip on the familiar, friendly weight of the gun in his hands.

The man knew someone was up on the bridge, or suspected. But he probably didn't know who. Or how many.

"I don't supposed Sean is hiding around here somewhere, in the car maybe? Or Daniel? He could be . . . rather shy, on occasion."

Silence.

"Nothing to say?"

"I don't know anyone by those names. Diablo."

O'Donnell sighed. "They belong with their families, Natalia. You all do. You don't have to run anymore," he nodded back toward the agents behind him. "You will be offered forgiveness, protection too. I can take you home. We can end this."

Silence.

"Well. Think about it girl, alright? I'll be around Washington for the next day or so, available if you want to talk, and then it's back to work I'm afraid. But you can always call – " O'Donnell stepped forward, extending a card.

"_You stay back_."

All the youth, the unsteadiness had been sucked away. The fear tempered into anger, into steel.

Just the sound of it seemed to sharpen Ziva's vision. She could see the stray hairs in the crease between the man's eyebrows. Where her bullet would carve its path, when she shot the monster.

O'Donnell pulled up, surprised. "Alright. Of course. Well," he put the card back in his pocket, "it's just the information for one of my contacts at the FBI - they'll be able to put you in touch with me, if you would ever like to talk. But you can find him on your own I'm sure. The name is Arena - Agent Arena."

He continued to look at her, waiting patiently, but she said nothing.

O'Donnell pulled back slowly, started to turn away. Hesitated. "I am sorry about all of this, child," he gestured toward the cars littered behind him. And then he smiled again. "But it's so very good to see you. Tell Daniel I say hello, would you?"

He strolled back to the lead sedan and got in.

The agents at the doors of the first car straightened cautiously, guns still trained on the strange half-hidden girl in front of them.

"You'll need to clear that vehicle off the road, miss," one said finally. His pistol was steady in his hands, aimed at her chest. Treating Cassie and the SUV as a threat still, if a relatively mild one.

"Yes, sir." Swift and polite. Cass retreated back to the car's passenger door, assault rifle tucked down at her side, and climbed in.

The SUV peeled away instantly. McGee snatched up the camera at his knees, taking photos of the agents below them as they stood up from their cover, before they too got into their cars.

The first two sedans drove off at a leisurely pace this time, no longer trying to follow Cassie's car. They were trailed by the two sedans with busted up fenders. Those just managed to limp slowly under the bridge and to the end of the exit, no doubt heading to the nearest mechanic.

When the last car had disappeared around the far turn of the exit McGee and Tony popped up and trotted over to Ziva.

She had already pulled out her phone and dialed, but looked up as they came close and shook her head. "No answer."

"Come on," Tony urged, "Let's go."

He slid into the driver's seat this time, Ziva dialing again even as she ran for the car.

"Her phone is off."

McGee strapped himself in as Tony gunned toward the thruway. "That could be – that's not necessarily bad, is it? If they were still being followed she would call you, right?"

Ziva held her phone tightly, gazing out the window at the stark winter landscape and the cars speeding by. "They are hunted by the Calera cartel, McGee. And that madman. Now the FBI . . . "

"I know. And I've never been so glad that after all our searches we never found a trace of those kids. They know how to protect themselves, how to hide. And they know how to find us, if they need to."

Ziva nodded reluctantly, and set her phone aside. She would try again later.

The three of them were quiet for a moment, the silence under the engine thick as Tony set them on 81 north, speeding back to DC.

"We need to call Gibbs," McGee said finally, eyeing Ziva's phone. His own was still lying somewhere under the dash. "We should probably call _Vance_."

"Not yet, McGee." Ziva zipped her cell into the pocket of her jacket, as if to seal it away from temptation. "We need to think this through."

"That was Declan – !"

"Yeah, think we all got who he was." Tony reached down into the divider between the seats, coming up a moment later with his sunglasses. The sun was an orange disk hanging low in the sky off to the left, shining into the driver's side window as it raced toward the horizon. "At the moment I'm more worried about his escort."

Tim took a moment to push away the revulsion, the shock of seeing O'Donnell - "Working with the FBI. Weird that Kort wouldn't know – "

"No," Ziva said flatly. "It is impossible that Kort would not know. Or Gibbs, he has contacts there as well. Both of them have kept a careful eye on inter-agency traffic regarding cartels. And _that man_ in particular," she muttered.

"You think the two of them were deliberately kept in the dark about an operation involving O'Donnell?" McGee frowned.

Tony raised his eyebrows.

"Alright. The cartel's had Gibbs pegged since Abby's report linked him to the assassinations in 92. But the CIA?" Tim wondered. "That would mean they've identified Kort too . . ." And had the sheer clout at the FBI to keep this not only from him, but from his boss over there. From all indications, Kort's boss was a powerful man.

"Yep," Tony said idly. "CIA falling down on the job. Alarming. But we have bigger problems. The fact that O'Donnell not only found Gray and Cass but has been hooked up with the _FBI_ – "

Ziva nodded emphatically.

" – and is running around town not only free but armed, and at the command of his very own gunslinging, Fed-approved, motorist-harrassing caravan . . . that is - " _terrifying, wrong, and very, very bad _" - weird," Tony concluded. "Too weird."

Well, not all that weird, Tim thought. He fidgeted slightly in his seat, glancing between the partners sitting stiff in the seats in front of him. They did have an idea, now, about why O'Donnell was here.

Were they not going to bring it up?

Maybe they just weren't surprised.

"Did you already know?" he said quietly. "That he's - that she's his - "

"That man is almost certainly a pathological liar, McGee," Ziva said sharply. "We cannot trust anything he says."

Apparently Ziva didn't want to talk about it.

"She didn't deny it," Tony said flatly. "Didn't seem surprised either."

"It is useless to speculate. And it is irrelevant in any case."

McGee snorted. _Irrelevant_? Legally it was a trump card. "If he finds her, and can prove it? What if he is working with the FBI, and can also prove she's not a citizen? If it's a custody issue and he has cartel lawyers he could have her sent back to Colombia so fa -"

The words caught in Tim's throat as Ziva turned calmly in her seat to face him. She stared at Tim in a strange, detached way, one he'd never seen from her before.

And he realized, with a cold feeling in his gut, that the person he was looking at was someone he didn't know.

"Then we had better make sure he doesn't find her, McGee."

He nodded.

So they weren't going to talk about that.

There were plenty of other topics to cover.

"They can't know who he is - the FBI. We need to warn them - Gibbs and Kort, and Fornell, Vance - "

"And everyone else," Ziva agreed. Her voice was terse, and she sat motionless, almost hunched in her seat. She looked . . . like the Mossad operative who had first joined their team five years ago. Emotionless. Focused. Dangerous. "But if the cartel has gained access to even the slightest part of the FBI's surveillance network - " she shook her head. "It is probably safer not to make any of the warnings over the phone. We do not know how deep this goes, McGee."

"Right," Tim frowned.

He wasn't used to thinking suspiciously of another agency. But if the FBI was neutral, or if a unit was being manipulated by the cartel . . . good thing those kids were so good at hiding. How _were_ they found? Cassie seemed to think it was a leak. They'd have to ask them about their movements, contacts . . . course with FBI surveillance in place, whoever they contacted . . . maybe why Cassie turned off her phone. Smart . . . hell, if the FBI just knew about the connection between the team and the cartel . . . oh.

Uh oh.

McGee lurched forward. "Give me your phones."

Ziva and Tony glanced at each other, and then tossed dubious looks back at McGee.

"Give me your phones," he insisted. "Now! The FBI can bug them remotely!"

"Chill, McGee," Tony said. "I'm hiding from Gibbs. My phone isn't even on."

But Ziva had heard of this remote bugging, and was already passing hers back. Tim flipped it over and popped the battery out instantaneously. "They can _turn them on_, Tony," he said, "Use them to track us - they can listen to anything we say, whether we're making a call or not. They could be listening to us _right now_ - "

"McGee," Tony laughed disbelievingly. And then slapped at Tim's hand as it crept stealthily up toward the driver's side door of the car, where Tony's phone was still stashed in a side pocket. "Hey! Hands off!"

"A little time away will be good for you -" McGee dodged, feinted, and tried to use his other hand to make a sneak attack " - your attachment to that thing is unhealthy - " a wriggle, an aggressive slither - and finally he grasped it, triumphant.

"Now hand little Penelope over," he smirked, and tugged her away.

"The Federal Bureau of Big Brother has violated Penelope. Is that what you're saying to me?" This was really shaping up to be a very bad day.

"I'll take good care of her, Tony."

That wasn't the point. Some things are sacred. His phone was _personal_. That was _Tony's_ phone.

Gibbs was going to grind this cartel into dust, and probably kick some big fat FBI ass along the way, and Tony was going to be his happy wingman.

And then he was going to get Penelope back from probie's sticky little fingers. Until then - he'd just have to kick enough FBI ass to make up for it.

"Alright, so we'll talk to the team in person," he sighed. "Or by carrier pigeon I guess. But call Abby before you gut your cell, probie – Ziva, toss him his phone. Just keep it vague, tell her to stay late, that we're coming in with pictures for her."

Tony leaned forward a bit to check his blind spot as he swerved into rush hour traffic on the 66. "And possibly with my own autopsy results," he muttered, "once I explain to Gibbs where we really were today."

**x**

But when they got to the Navy Yard it was 1810 and Gibbs, bizarrely, was already gone.

McGee ran the photos down to Abby's lab for identification, to be processed only after they swept the entire room, the bullpen, and every piece of equipment they ever used from top to bottom for bugs.

McGee promised to stay near a landline, and rolled his eyes when Tony suggestively asked if he'd be willing to escort Abby home at the end of the evening. Then Tony and Ziva headed for Gibbs' house – but not before Tony took a few extra seconds to get an empty box from a supply closet and fill it with all of the unsightly, lingering case files from their desks.

Gibbs had said to clear the decks, after all, and Gibbs did not accept excuses.

* * *

><p><em>an: __for my latest stab at Spanish:_

_Cóptero. ¿Es realmente usted?: Copter. Is that really you?_


	48. Agent Gibbs?

**Chapter 48: Agent Gibbs?**

What Tony told him was bullshit, of course. His team wasn't following up on local LEO tips about AK.

But whatever they were doing . . . they were probably able to handle it.

Most likely.

"Agent Gibbs? Sir?"

Silence.

"Are we boring you, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs shifted, straightening his suit jacket as he refocused his eyes. Vance's irritated face came into view first.

"No."

They'd passed bored about a hundred miles back. If Gibbs had actually been paying attention for the last forty-five minutes he was pretty sure he'd be catatonic by now.

Vance turned to the fresh-faced lawyer sitting next to him, smiling politely. "Thank you, Ms. Owen. I think we can take it from here."

She nodded and smiled back, gathered her papers and walked out.

Gibbs watched her go, trying to put his finger on what was weird about her. And finally realized that Agent Lee used to wear that exact same suit.

"The point of combining my meeting with yours was to save you the time of meeting with the legal department separately later."

"Yeah. Thanks."

The director shot him a disgruntled look. Gibbs returned it with interest.

He was perfectly aware that he hadn't sounded sincere. He was also aware that it was Vance who insisted on these meetings in the first place. He could have just signed the form –

"Not much point if you sleep through it," Vance grumbled. He abruptly got up and walked toward his desk.

"Wasn't sleeping – "

"Damn well better not. Before you turn our holding cells into your own personal Gitmo it would be prudent – "

"It's not even my – "

"_Prudent_, I said," the director steamrolled over him easily, even with his head down, rooting through one of his massive desk drawers, "to review the legalities regarding an unorthodox - one might say _murky_ - use of federal resources."

Leon seized the reserve stash of toothpicks from where they'd been buried under a pile of pens and returned to the conference table. He'd already chewed through the ones he stuck in his coat pockets that morning.

"Unprecedented, that's what it is," he muttered.

"Yeah. Got that the first time the first lawyer said it."

Vance nodded. If any of this ever came to light just the fact that they'd met with the agency's counsel and been up front about it all would probably save their careers. But that didn't make two hours of policy review any more fun.

He checked his watch. It was only 1700, but it felt like midnight. He'd long suspected that meetings like that one warped space-time.

"Everything else set?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Team needs to go over security for transport from the airport to the Navy Yard. Can do that tomorrow."

Cutting it a little close for an arrival scheduled late tomorrow night, but keeping the informant and his minions alive was Kort's job. Gibbs wasn't all that fussed about it.

"We'll start sorting through the surveillance from the Special-Ops team. Need to figure out a strategy for the interviews." And for after. "Going to be a lot of information to go through."

"How's the team holding up?"

Gibbs thought back to the very quiet afternoon he'd enjoyed in the bullpen. Suspiciously quiet.

"Fine," he said drily.

Truthfully they'd been antsier than usual over the past few weeks. He'd been working them hard, getting everything else out of the way before they dug into the cartel. And while his people didn't generally admit to being uneasy, Gibbs could tell that they were. Quietly uneasy about the informant coming in, and Gray too, observing the interviews. Uneasy about the uncertain path looming in front of them. Taking them right for the cartel.

On top of that - well. At least one of them had been giving him the runaround. Him. Gibbs.

He'd make them rue the day.

**x**

The bullpen was still quiet when he left Vance's office, his team's stuff still where it was whenever they'd blown out of there mid-lunch.

For once, though, it didn't really matter that they'd spent the afternoon playing hooky. There was no hot case - only the cartel on the horizon, and forms and filing in the meantime.

Unfortunately for the NCIS archiving staff, his people just weren't the sort to be real inspired by paperwork. Gibbs could relate to that. But he'd put in his time and now his desk, at least, was pristine like it hardly ever was.

He took the elevator down to Abby's lab to say goodnight and headed for the door. Checking out at 1730 on a Tuesday. It was practically a record.

Maybe he'd finally finish the design he was working on for Mike.

**x**

There was leftover pizza from the weekend.

Gibbs ate it standing at the counter in the kitchen, thinking about the sketches he'd made over the past month, filling all of his few free moments. The design becoming more elaborate the more he fiddled with it, and accepted it.

The basic elements were obvious. Already had the oak frame half built, and that part felt solid. Right.

Couldn't let it be just a box though. Mike was a simple guy, sure, but his life hadn't been _plain_. So the eagle and anchor over the globe would go on the front, and he'd already sketched that out.

But that didn't look exactly right either. Too stoic, Dinozzo would say. Too straight. Mike wasn't like that. He'd always been wild, a cowboy.

That was how Gibbs met him, really. Screw the system. Screw the _law_, if it didn't seem right to Mike.

Gibbs looked out the window to his left. It'd been twilight when he left the Navy Yard, but it was dark out now. All he could see in the glass was the blank, black night, and a little of his own reflection. A patch of white down in the corner – snow sitting on his neighbor's bushes, catching the kitchen light.

It would be warm in Mexico now. Beautiful at dinnertime, down by the water, peaceful and sunny. Cold beers and the grill out, Amira running around, laughing. Flowers in bloom, even in February . . .

Flowers on the beach, these days. Gibbs grinned. Last time he was down there Mike told him how Leila ordered some flowering desert vine through an old plant catalog she found at the library. The pots got shipped through the mail, right down to the cantina, and Mike had known it was futile, but just to satisfy her stubborn, woman's insistence, he and Amira had planted them. Put them in next to the porch.

And somehow those flowers took. Tough and wild, happy even in the sandy soil. Damnedest thing, he'd said. Never thought anything would grow there.

And Mike had smiled, proud.

Flower decal around the edges . . . ? Gibbs had done vines before. He'd just need to find the name of the flower and a picture. From Leila maybe . . . have to sketch out the dimensions first, see what he'd need in terms of material.

He rinsed his hands and flicked on the basement light, the image still vivid in his head. Sand and the water, Mike and his family, flowers in the sun.

Gibbs didn't see him until he'd jogged two-thirds of the way down the steps. When his own line of sight was well clear of the basement ceiling.

A still figure with a gun, standing by the workbench.

Gibbs stopped. He could tell from his peripheral vision that the pistol was trained on him, had followed his movement down the stairs. But whoever was holding it didn't fire.

Gibbs turned slowly to face him.

It was a kid. Dark hair, fierce dark eyes. A pale, whip-thin body, the arm and shoulder holding the gun turned deliberately toward Gibbs while the rest of him disappeared from view.

Not the steadiest grip in the world, one-handed like that. But the kid did present a very small target. From where Gibbs was standing he looked barely wider than the pistol he held.

They stood and stared at each other for a few seconds, the gun wavering very slightly, Gibbs motionless.

"You alone?" the kid said.

"Yes," Gibbs said.

And with that he lowered the pistol.

Gibbs followed the motion warily. "You expecting someone else?"

"Anybody could walk in this place. You got no locks!"

Gibbs considered retreating back up the stairs.

He walked, slow and deliberate, down the rest of them instead.

Truth was he had plenty of locks. His Sig was locked away in the safe upstairs. His rifle was locked up behind the kid. And Gibbs wasn't carrying a weapon at all.

Not that he would really need one if he could get in close. The boy was thirteen, maybe, and built like a pipe cleaner.

He glanced at the counter against the far wall, but it didn't look like the shelf holding his rifle had been tampered with. The kid watched him carefully, face hard. The lowered gun still steady in his hand.

"So you just decided to walk in?" Gibbs kept the tone easy. "Come down here to steal my TV?" He nodded toward the battered old set perched on a shelf.

The kid glanced between Gibbs and the television doubtfully, like he was trying to figure out if that was a joke. "That thing works?"

Not so well these days, actually, since digital took over the airwaves. Gibbs stepped a little closer. The kid had the good sense to look cautious, wide eyes fixed on the man approaching him. But he didn't back up, or even raise the gun.

"Well, if not for my TV then why are you here?"

"You're Agent Gibbs, yeah?"

The boy started to edge away then, the movement nervous, and Gibbs paused before he really spooked him.

The kid kept talking. "Safe here as anywhere, Gray said, till they find him."

Gibbs looked the boy over again, not really surprised. "You're with Gray."

"Yeah."

"And where is Gray?"

"Tracking." Impatient. "Like I said."

"Right." Gibbs kept his voice relaxed, calm like a summer day. "Tracking who?"

Gibbs froze as the boy pulled the gun up, but the kid just held the weapon flat against his own body, as if to remind himself that it was there. And then he finally turned to face Gibbs full-on, and Gibbs blinked.

"Diablo. He's here."

When Gibbs didn't say anything the kid kept on forcefully, like his calm was a wild animal trying to throw him. The terror under it suddenly obvious. "He found us. He's here. Tried to follow us home from school."

Gibbs took a moment to absorb that.

Diablo. In DC. At their _school_.

"Gray left you here?"

The kid nodded.

"Alone?"

The boy shook his head and gestured to the far wall, and Gibbs turned a bit to look. The cot had been set against the blind spot under the stairs.

There were three more kids piled on it. Young. A six-year-old girl, if that. A boy and another girl, maybe seven or eight.

Gibbs stared at them, and they, utterly still, stared back. He returned his gaze to what was apparently the senior kid.

No way.

"Anyone else?"

"Three forward on the roof, two out back."

That took a second. "Gray left lookouts on my roof?"

A nod.

"They're armed?"

An enthusiastic nod.

"Anything else?"

"Ditch your phones, Diablo's got Feds," the kid recited. "If you have to call out, use the landline." He gestured toward the bench. Gibbs' portable phone was sitting on it. "Said to do what you say. That they'd be back soon as they could. And he said - " the kid frowned, and glanced toward the project slowly taking shape on the table in the middle of the room. "He said that's not a hot tub."

That was it. Phones. Feds. Not a hot tub.

Gibbs considered the kid in front of him, and then the little ones behind him, thinking it through.

Gray had stashed kids in his basement.

But the cartel knew where Gibbs lived.

Why use his house?

If Diablo found Gray, had he found Kort as well? Gray must be desperate. No place safe . . .

_Daiblo's got Feds._

A lot of agents knew who Gibbs was, at least. Would think twice before moving against him. And Gibbs knew every last agent trick in the -

Ah. Clever kid. Pitting his own Feds against the cartel's.

And _hunting_ the threat. To draw it off? Away from the kids here?

That part, not so clever. If anyone should be tracking down any member of that cartel, it was law enforcement. Meaning Gibbs.

Assuming Gray survived they would discuss that -_ again_ - later. But first things first. Gibbs was apparently on Rule 44 duty.

He dug his cell out of his pocket and popped the battery out of the back, placing the two pieces on the bench next to the portable landline. The boy moved a little closer to his side, watching his movements silently.

"You said he's gone to track down Diablo? You're sure?"

The kid seemed to be calming a bit, grounded just by talking to Gibbs.

"Yeah. They'll get him . . . " The boy was reassuring himself. " . . . Gray and Cop and them."

_And them_.

At least the two Gibbs knew weren't out there alone.

Gibbs dug out a scrap of paper and a pencil and started scrolling through the numbers saved in the portable phone, scribbling down the most useful ones. Since he started carrying a cell he'd stopped memorizing numbers. "What's your name?"

"Hook."

Gibbs' eyes drifted from the phone to the kid's right shoulder, where his arm ended above the elbow. "Seriously?"

The kid shrugged. Actually grinned a little.

Didn't any of them –? "Kid," Gibbs sighed, "what is your _name_."

A pause.

_Said to do what you say_ . . .

"Alex."

Gibbs shoved the paper into a pocket and pointed at the entire group as he headed back toward the stairs. "Stay. And I'm going to let you keep that pistol for now, Alex," the kid was still hugging it, "but only if you put the safety on and promise not to shoot anyone with it."

He jogged up the stairs, strapped on his Sig and both his backups, and loaded up with extra ammunition. Drew all the curtains closed and went back downstairs to pull out his rifle.

Alex was sitting on the floor by the cot by then, silent with the others as they watched Gibbs load the long weapon and set it on the table next to him.

Finally Gibbs sat down on the stool at the bench and focused on the kids again.

The younger ones were still bundled up in their winter coats. He never really bothered to heat the basement.

"How long have you guys been here?"

"Few hours," Alex again. "It was after we left school we noticed the tail, and then when we ditched them we came right here."

Gibbs looked them over. He'd changed when he first got home, and then been upstairs in the kitchen for awhile without hearing a peep. "Everyone okay? Need the bathroom? Something to eat?"

They shook their heads.

Gibbs got up and adjusted the thermostat.

He needed to call his team. But he wasn't about to call his people on phones that might be tapped. So he needed to get McGee in to sweep his house for bugs.

He also needed to head into the Navy Yard so that he could start looking for Diablo. Needed to find him before Gray did. If the guy had a federal escort and the kid went for him anyway . . .

Communications from MTAC would be perfectly secure. But he wasn't about to go into the Navy Yard and leave the children here alone, or take them with him either, since Gray seemed to think they were safer here than anywhere else.

And if Diablo had actually bought agents with access to the Navy Yard, that was probably true. A house would be easier to defend, simpler. Just kill anyone trying to get in who wasn't Gibbs.

"So what is it?" Alex said.

"Hm?"

One of the other kids pointed to the half-finished wood project.

"Nothing yet. Isn't finished. Alex, I want you to tell me everything that happened from the time you left school today to the time I came down here."

Alex was an excellent storyteller. He was about ten minutes into an exciting rendition of events when two soft, rapid thumps interrupted from the window behind him. Gibbs was up instantly, gun trained on the source of the noise.

"People here," Alex whispered. "Two you know."

Lookouts on the roof. Right.

He wondered what the signal would be if someone they didn't recognize as a friendly approached the house. If there would be a signal, or just a body.

Gibbs held a finger to his lips anyway, gesturing for the kids to stay where they were as he ran lightly up the stairs.

The front door was just opening, unusually quiet. Whoever was coming in was doing it cautiously.

Gibbs approached the same way, hugging the wall in the kitchen, easing around the divide.

It was Dinozzo, Ziva right behind him. Faces set in tense lines as they silently began to clear Gibbs' house.

**x**

They both saw him at the same moment and straightened, relieved.

"Boss." Dinozzo holstered his gun, watching with some surprise as Gibbs did the same. "You know?"

"Know what?"

Gibbs turned and led them into the dining area, away from the big front windows.

"Declan O'Donnell is in the country," Ziva said. "In DC. He seems to know who Cassie is and where she goes to school, and he has somehow allied himself with the FBI."

Gibbs nodded. "Where's McGee?"

Ziva and Tony exchanged looks.

The boss already knew.

"We got photos of O'Donnell and the agents he was with. Abby and McGee are checking their computers for bugs before they run them. If this guy's somehow infiltrated the FBI then his surveillance capabilities are just - "

Gibbs headed for the basement. "Stay here. And don't shoot anyone without my express permission."

They frowned after him as he trotted back down the stairs.

Gibbs grabbed the phone and dialed MTAC. A few minutes later McGee was on his way to Gibbs' house, photos and a pile of bug detection equipment in tow. A guard stayed with Abby as she checked the NCIS computers before running the digital photo IDs. It wasn't like she would be venturing home that night anyway. Too much to do.

Gibbs turned to the kids watching him. "Will the lookouts know who Agent McGee is?"

Alex nodded. "He's on your team."

Yeah. But as far as Gibbs knew only Gray had actually clapped eyes on McGee.

"You're sure they'll recognize him?"

"Timothy McGee, 32. Tall, white, brown hair, green eyes, armed, knows computers, navy bases, Johns Hopkins, MIT, Silver Spring, Norfolk, Gibbs' team. Pictures in the file," Alex paused. "Looks like a geek."

Alright then.

**x**

Gibbs ordered the Party Deluxe spread from the local Chinese place and put it on the agency card. He asked the kids if they wanted to go upstairs - the ground floor would be the least safe, but there was a bathroom and a comfortable bedroom on the second floor.

Alex said that Gray told them to stay in the basement. And that was the end of that.

Gibbs moved his tools off of one end of his worktable so they'd have a place to eat. Then he grabbed the phone and his rifle and went upstairs to deal with his agents.

* * *

><p><em>an: Rule 44, from "Patriot Down": First things first. Hide the women and children._


	49. Tripwire

**Chapter 49: Tripwire**

Occasionally, through the course of his days, Gibbs would find himself thinking about Gray, and Cassie. The little hints he'd gotten of the rest of them.

About how hard it was to gain their trust. Like moving a mountain one pebble at a time.

He didn't know if he would ever get there.

But among those they truly accepted into their world, between each other . . . what he had seen so far was evidence of an unbelievable team. A family, but not in blood. In the true sense of the word. Unbreakable devotion. Unconditional love.

His team had seen it, recognized it. A family built from ashes, on the bond that came from fighting together to survive. Learning to pull each other through all the shit the world could throw at them.

Now O'Donnell was here, had the gall to step foot in his agents' territory. To threaten a group of kids his team barely knew, but had come to admire. To recognize as their own, in a way.

The urge to lay themselves down, to fling themselves into O'Donnell's path - it was tearing them up.

He could smell it on them. On Tony and Ziva, at least. To hell with the law. To hell with their jobs, with the team, even. They wanted revenge. To get back what had been taken from them. To punish for all the dead pulled from the fires at Camp Six, and the faces still haunting Dinozzo's dreams. For Ziva singled out yet again as a rapist's prize, worth reduced to whatever power he could lord over her. She wanted that power back. Fought for it all the long hours she spent sparring, still wrestling with him in her mind. For the scars on Cassie's face, that she would carry all her life. And the black sweep of Gray's past, the horror that had made him what he was. Taken from him terribly, and forever.

It was more than enough to make them want to kill. More than enough to forget any reason not to.

But first they had to get out of Gibbs' house.

It had finally dawned on them that he had no intention of going anywhere, or having them go anywhere either, and it was pissing them off. They'd expected Gibbs to be angry. Not to sequester them.

McGee had arrived by the time Gibbs made it back up the stairs. He stood awkwardly in the living room, never all that comfortable in his boss's domain. But then, none of them were ever very happy when they were confused, or thought they were about to face a furious boss.

"Gibbs." Ziva dug in anyway, the moment he reappeared. Never let it be said his people lacked guts. "We need to get to MTAC - "

"Not yet."

The tone froze them all. And they seemed to notice, finally, that he was armed to the teeth.

He leaned the rifle against the wall of the dining room, close to hand, and passed the portable phone to his tech expert without a word. Then he sat in the chair facing the kitchen and snapped his fingers for the other two to join him around the table.

Gibbs sat silent and expressionless as McGee worked, no doubt further freaking the kid out. But freaked or not, McGee didn't get flustered by Gibbs anymore. He efficiently swept the immediate area for bugs and began to take apart the phone with lightening speed.

Gibbs assessed his people.

Dinozzo was too quiet. And not looking to Gibbs, not the way he normally would. Tony was staring away from them all tonight, focus totally out the window. The expression on his face was arranged into a sort of paper-thin calm - a distant man fighting a private war. One finger tapped lightly, soundlessly on the table. It was Tony circa Ziva's disappearance in Somalia. Trying to figure out where everything had gone wrong. Wondering how to grope forward, through unfamiliar territory. Regretting every second of inaction as it slipped away from him, feeling it like blood loss from a wound.

Across the table Ziva was completely still, gaze blank. She looked alert. But Gibbs doubted that she was really seeing any of them right now. She was hunting in her mind. Making the decisions that would allow her to move seamlessly into action the moment Gibbs released them.

He had no doubt what her plans for the night entailed. She'd been an assassin for a long time, from a young age. At the moment her approach to this situation was probably not all that unlike Gray's. Ziva would gather information on the source of the threat. She would hunt it down. And then she would quietly, irrevocably end it. No matter the cost. She'd as good as told him that. Protecting these kids - it meant redemption to her. It meant everything.

They were tipping toward the man he'd been when he set out to destroy Hernandez. Caught up in their anger. Not above the law, exactly. Just beyond caring about its consequences.

Gibbs felt a dull, unpleasant thrill shoot through his gut. He wasn't entirely sure that he'd be able to haul them back from this edge.

McGee, when he sat down with them a few minutes later, looked lost. And more lost for every moment that he continued to sit there and endure the silence of the agents around him. Left behind again, because he hadn't grasped a boy's hand and followed him into the dark. Hadn't watched the kid appear impossibly in the night, seen him tossed into the air like an infant and slammed back down to the ground. Heard him scream. And been horribly, treacherously glad all the same. Because he was tied to a truck, waiting to die. Listening for a woman he loved and a rape he couldn't stop. Hadn't lain dirty and tired and hungry and so glad, so grateful, on the hard floor of a cave. Listening to Gray suffer. For them.

Gibbs let Tony and Ziva sit there, sullen in the unforgiving light of his dining room, because they needed to remember. To feel it. What had saved them then. It wasn't their dedication to a job, some pale duty. And it wasn't the desire for revenge, to kill what had hurt them, or those they loved. It was care. Devotion. The team. It all started because the agents in front of him had simply refused to give up on their team, or on him. They'd forged alliances and worked together, not gone rogue. It was what made them great. And because of that devotion, when it was over and the fallout had come - the doubt over what they had done, the cost of it - they'd had each other to turn to. Still had the team.

Gibbs would be damned if it would end any other way.

McGee wasn't really into long awkward silences. "Ground floor of the house is clean at least, Boss. Found this in the receiver of the landline. They were listening to your calls." McGee handed him a small silvery chip.

So somebody out there had a good idea of just how infrequently he used his home phone. Gibbs held the tiny chip out and squinted at it, not bothering with his reading glasses. He placed it on the table.

"Cartel or FBI?"

"It's a really common device, Boss. It could have been anyo - "

Tim jumped in his seat as Gibbs slammed his fist down onto the table, shattering the bug, and the pretense of calm. Tony jerked as well, attention brought swiftly back to the room. But Ziva's dark eyes only shifted to evaluate the noise, dismissed it as a threat, and went back to stillness. Building the op in her mind.

Not if Gibbs could help it.

"Is there a point to this party?" Dinozzo, impatient.

"Waiting for one of you to tell me what happened today."

A long, three-way glance.

Finally Ziva spoke up. She had been the initial contact, apparently. And she was also the one with near perfect recall.

"Cassie called me at a little before 1500. We were in the bullpen, you had gone to meet Kort. She told me that her car was being tailed. That the pursuers were aggressive . . . "

McGee had loaded the photos onto an ipad Abby kept in the lab. He illustrated the story for Gibbs once Ziva got to the bridge, scrolling through the images of the FBI agents and O'Donnell.

Gibbs studied them, but didn't recognize any of the faces there.

" . . . A third man stepped out of the lead car. He was also armed but did not have his weapon drawn. I recognized him as Declan O'Donnell - "

"We need to know how he got here," Tony interrupted.

Ziva cast him a sidelong glance. "He spoke in Spanish at first, said '_Coptero_ -'"

Tony sat forward in his seat and glared at Gibbs. And then he stood up. "We need to know what the hell Kort was doing when this guy was strolling through customs!"

Gibbs had to look up to maintain eye contact. "Sit down."

"We need to - "

"And we will. But right now you need to sit down."

"Fuck this! I need to _find_ him."

Tony spun away from them. Checking his sidearm as he stalked toward the front door. Leaving.

But then he stopped, halfway there, and fluidly reversed course, heading through the kitchen and slamming out the back.

Not leaving. Waiting for Gibbs.

Well. Could have been worse.

Gibbs tossed a _Stay_ at Ziva and McGee and followed. His second was pacing a hole into the floor of his deck.

"What the hell, Dinozzo - "

"We're wasting time. We have been all along! We should have got him when we had the chance. We _knew_ - "

"Shut up and get inside."

"We could have ended him. So fucking _stupid!_ We knew, with Gray, we knew what he - "

"_Shut up_, Dinozzo," Gibbs ordered, suddenly cold and furious. "And get inside."

"Can't talk about this in there," Tony growled. One of his hands shot toward the house like he wanted to punch it. "With them."

Dinozzo's rage was incendiary, the force of it made usually graceful movement jerky, his voice hoarse. But he still didn't want to expose McGee, maybe even Ziva, to this. To the cool truth that he was going to kill O'Donnell. And it wouldn't be clean, wouldn't be legal. It would be murder.

"Well, we're not talking about it out here, either," Gibbs said. He got into his second's face and stared him down hard. "Get it together. And get back inside."

Gibbs left him there in the dark, returned to the rest of the team still sitting silent at the table. He felt the weight of McGee's wide eyes, and Ziva's shrewd ones, and waved for her to continue.

Dinozzo joined them silently after a few moments, still stiff with anger. Gibbs hadn't been entirely sure the other man would follow him back in. Apparently Tony had gotten close to Gray - that level of distress was personal.

" . . . and O'Donnell said, 'Alright, of course, it is just the information for one of my contacts at the FBI. They will be able to put you in touch with me if you would ever like to talk. But you can find him on your own I am sure. The name is Arena.'"

McGee broke into Ziva's flat monologue.

"Abby looked him up, Boss, and I got a photo off the FBI database. He wasn't one of them there today - " Tim pulled the ipad toward him again and scrolled for the folder where he'd stashed the picture. "Frederick Arena," he went on, still frowning at the screen, "he's part of the— "

"Frederick," Ziva said. And looked sharply at Gibbs. "Fred."

Gibbs nodded slightly.

"Fred?" Tony leaned forward with the intense, sudden focus of a shark scenting blood. "Someone we know?"

Tim was looking at the gadget on the table, just opening up the folder he'd been searching for. Tony had his eyes on the screen too, waiting to see if he would recognize Frederick, Fred.

Ziva was the one to register the subtle movement, a shift in the corner of her eye.

She was up, her gun drawn, centered on the target too fast to actually see it. Dinozzo and McGee followed instantly, like dominoes in reverse.

Alex stood at the top of the basement steps, the littlest girl standing behind him, looking down the barrel of Ziva's pistol.

There was tripwire silence for a moment.

And then Alex grinned. "Wow. Ziva, yeah?"

"What do you need, Alex?"

The kid tore his eyes away from Ziva reluctantly. Gibbs was still sitting calmly at the table that all three of his agents had abandoned.

Alex gestured to the little girl standing behind him. "Bathroom."

"Second door on the left." Gibbs pointed him up the stairs. Didn't want them shut into a ground floor room. Three sets of eyes followed the kids toward the stairs.

He had to rap the table with his knuckles to get his agents' attention.

They looked down at him, the comprehension sudden, and probably damn near total. Nothing trumped protecting a child. Not for Gibbs. Nothing made him more focused, or scarier, and - in some corner of his mind that he knew they had the intelligence to see - very little came closer to scaring him.

"Sit." They sat. "Continue."

Ziva finished her retelling of that afternoon's events. Her voice very slightly easier, Tony's posture less stiff.

Ziva explained to Tony and McGee, in dark tones, who Agent Fred was. One of the youngest members of Dargas' unit. One of the two who had interrogated Gray for the FBI.

Those agents had seen Gray, seen the scarring on his arms, heard rumors about him carrying a weapon. Suspected he was connected to the drug world. They could have a photograph of him. They had seen how Gibbs protected Gray. More than that, they'd been humiliated by it. If they pulled the parking lot footage they would have seen Kort. And they worked in a trafficking unit, close to drug runners. A breath away from the cartels.

Now Agent Fred was O'Donnell's "contact" at the FBI.

Fred must have decided to identify Gray by sniffing around among the FBI's informants. He'd searched until someone from the Calera cartel recognized him, and passed it up the chain to Diablo.

Fred was the leak.

Ziva paused when Alex and the girl stepped back through the living room to return to the basement. The kids were silent, visible only for a moment before they disappeared again.

When Ziva finished, Gibbs settled the full weight of his attention on McGee. He kept it there as the silence grew uncomfortable, and McGee began to fidget.

"Boss?"

"What's our goal, Tim?"

McGee's eyes widened at his first name.

Uncertainty. But McGee would always be the kid in the class who wanted to have the answer.

" . . . To bring down the cartel?"

"Do Colombian cartels fall under NCIS jurisdiction?"

McGee blinked. Gibbs could give a paper bag for jurisdiction, he'd never paid the least attention to it. But the meaning of the question was clear enough: wrong answer.

"No."

"We're not in the bullpen, Tim. We're in my house. What is our goal."

Gibbs studied McGee, and waited. McGee wasn't an assassin or a spy like Ziva, didn't have violence and deception in his blood. He wasn't a natural-born cop like Dinozzo either, didn't get his greatest thrills outsmarting perps and putting scumbags in lockup.

McGee knew naval bases and Johns Hopkins and computers and Gibb's team, just as Alex had said.

But what McGee knew was very different from who he was. Tim was the older brother on Gibbs' team. He was the son, the grandson - the closest thing to a family man they had. And there was one reason alone that he joined NCIS. One reason that made him an agent instead of a research scientist or a millionaire programmer, or even an admiral like his father.

McGee nodded, suddenly certain, sure of it to his bones. He tilted his head toward the basement door. "To protect them."

Gibbs quirked an eyebrow. "O'Donnell shows and they need our protection. Don't they have anyone else?"

McGee hesitated. "They've got Kort."

"Anyone else?"

" . . . Not that I know of."

"Alright. And who is protecting O'Donnell, McGee?"

McGee thought about that. Ziva and Tony stared at Gibbs. " . . . His contacts at the FBI," McGee said slowly.

"And?"

"The cartel."

"And?"

McGee just looked at him blankly.

"Who else, McGee?"

"The Colombian government," Ziva said quietly. "Kort warned us in the beginning that sections of the government itself were allied in the civil war with the most powerful cartels."

Gibbs didn't take his eyes off McGee. "And?"

Tim shook his head, glanced at the agents sitting still beside him.

"Who is the Colombian government's ally, McGee."

Tony sat forward, eyes sharp.

"We are," Tim said slowly.

"Are we going to get away with assassinating O'Donnell on US soil, Tim?"

The quiet that descended on the heels of that question was so absolute and still it felt like a solid thing, like concrete set between them.

McGee glanced between Tony and Ziva, sitting stonefaced on either side of him. "Protected by Colombia, the US and the cartel? Probably not."

"What's our goal, Tim?"

"To protect the kids."

"Can we do that from prison?"

"No, Boss."

"We will get him eventually," Gibbs said evenly. Still staring at McGee. "But not tonight. Anyone who needs to kill him now, needs it more than anything else, should leave. Shouldn't they, Tim?"

McGee stared back at him. An older brother and a father, and total understanding between them where there had never quite been before. "Yes."

Gibbs let his gaze drop to the table. Spoke to the room. "If any one of you can't commit to working with the team on this one you get off here. And I'll tell you right now, we're not going to move against O'Donnell. Not tonight."

No one moved. His agents were quiet. Not stewing in their fury now. Refocusing. Reconsidering their priorities.

There could still be something to save here, a happy ending among all the ways it could play out. If they pulled in their anger. If they did their jobs, as Gibbs defined them, and did them well.

"What's the plan?" Dinozzo, rare hesitance in his words.

"We don't know if O'Donnell is working alone or if he brought a platoon with him. According to Alex, Gray and Cassie are both out looking for him now. Team stays here to provide protection, at least until Abby calls with a lead or we have more intel."

"What about Kort?" McGee asked.

A pause.

But Gibbs never gave them the answers that they could figure out for themselves.

"Gray brought at least some of the children in need of protection to Gibbs' house," Ziva said. "Gibbs is in a good position to protect them, whether from O'Donnell or the FBI. Gray has probably enlisted Kort's help in hunting O'Donnell. Kort has more experience with the cartel than we do, and the CIA will be better positioned than we would be to work around the FBI. The cartel actually_ is_ in Kort's jurisdiction . . . If I was going to hunt O'Donnell," she continued, almost softly, "I would begin with Kort."

Tony's eyes flicked from Ziva, staring steadily back at him, to the basement. And from Gibbs' rifle to Gibbs. "Alright. So how about we bring in backup for the house? From NCIS?"

He was in, that meant. They were all in.

Gibbs felt something release inside him.

He could have worked this without Tony or Ziva, without both of them even. It just would have been a hell of a lot harder, and it was going to be hard enough on its own.


	50. The Cost

**Chapter 50: The Cost**

_"Alright. So how about we bring in backup for the house? From NCIS?"_

Bringing in more agents would mean more attention drawn to Gibbs' house, more people in the know. Backup would be a risk without clear reward.

Gibbs let his eyes wander toward the window, cloudy through the curtain, and shook his head. "I'm prepared for an attack," he admitted. "But I doubt there'll be one here."

And Gray hadn't thought it likely either. Which was why he left the kids at his house and then turned around to fight, instead of picking up stakes and running.

"The cartel is basically allowed to function in Colombia because it's politically advantageous to the government there - and to our efforts to stabilize the region," McGee pondered. "Londono is an asset in the war. But the cartel would risk that tolerance if they openly go after a federal agent on American soil. So here at least they'll probably be cautious - covert."

"They want something," Tony said abruptly.

McGee and Ziva looked at him.

"It's not an attack. It never was. O'Donnell - today was a warning. Cass has something he wants."

McGee took a careful breath. "If she's his daughter, she could _be_ what he wants."

Tony ignored him. He stared into space, talking almost to himself as he felt his way forward.

Doing what Dinozzo did. Outsmarting the perp.

"He played his hand, let us know he's here. But not to attack. He set up a meeting . . . Why? He didn't even try to get her to come with him. That stuff about going home, forgiveness - that was a bribe. Or a threat."

He looked at Gibbs, and the others followed suit. "The kids have something he wants."

Gibbs nodded. "Maybe."

It seemed pretty damn likely.

The phone rang, startling all of them. But it was only the Chinese delivery guy, waiting out at the curb like Gibbs had told him to in no uncertain terms.

He sent Tony and Ziva out to get the food and pulled down ten dinner plates, more than he'd ever used since the last ex-wife took them out of the box and put them up there. He dumped a pile of forks and some serving spoons on top and instructed McGee to fill a jug with water and get the half-gallon of milk out of the fridge. When Ziva and Tony were back, loaded down with long, foil-wrapped platters and plastic bags, he led them down the basement steps.

The kids were sitting at the worktable, backpacks and schoolbooks spread out in front of them.

Under the shocked eyes of his agents the kids cleared their books away and set up the spread, mumbling shy thank-you's and, at Gibbs' insistence, finally serving themselves. Gibbs, being a bastard and still somewhat pissed, waited until Tony reached for a plate.

"You three," he nodded at his team. "You're relieving the watch. Go out through the backdoor."

Gibbs glanced at the clock on the wall, frowning to himself as his agents stared at him.

Whoever the watch was, they'd been out in the cold for at least four hours now.

"Out – side?" Tony, sounding doubtful. Looking at the impossibly young kids, sitting defenseless, apparently, in Gibbs' basement. And at the spareribs.

"Better grab your coats." Gibbs picked up a plate and the serving spoon and grinned, despite himself, at the sesame chicken. "It's cold out there."

They went.

Gibbs was just sitting down at his workbench when they came back in.

"There's nobody out there, Boss."

He raised an eyebrow - the _not impressed_ one.

"We walked the perimeter and called out," Ziva added. "No one answered."

He chewed for a few seconds, thinking that over, and then looked to Alex. The kid had what must have been a pound of lo mein on his plate.

"They going to come down for me?"

Alex shrugged.

So Gibbs went up the stairs and out the back, into the cold night air.

He paused on the deck, still close to the house, and took in the sharp, dark night. The suburban rush hour was long gone. It was silent, crystal clear, and the stars were brilliant in a velvet sky.

Shame how much of his work for NCIS was indoors - the bullpen, interrogation rooms, MTAC.

He missed this.

His breath frosted pure, ghostly white in the sliver of light spilling from the door behind him.

"Your relief is here," he said quietly, words sent into the watchful dark. "And so is dinner."

The agents stood there in silence for a minute.

Waiting.

And then there was a soft scrape above them, movement in the shadows. A girl about Cassie's age dropped down from Gibbs' roof. Long, dark curly hair, pulled back. Long face, long limbs. Curious eyes.

She looked Gibbs over methodically, considered his agents. Then she slung the rifle down from her shoulder and held it out.

The rifle would have a longer range of course, and more stopping power. Better than the pistols his agents were carrying for a stationary, elevated position.

Gibbs scanned the roof. There were supposed to be three up there, and two more on the ground.

"What about the others?"

"Three for three," the girl said.

Three agents. Replacing . . . ?

Gibbs glanced around.

There were two boys visible in the yard now, standing close. Tony followed Gibbs' gaze to them and stepped back, startled.

"I'll take a shift." Gibbs reached for the rifle, grasped the barrel. It didn't budge.

"You know the house. You should stay inside."

She was quieter than Cassie. A little cooler. But just as bold.

He figured it wasn't worth an argument. Besides - she was right.

"How will my people know if someone approaching is one of yours?"

"Gray or Cop will be with anyone you don't know."

"McGee, Dinozzo - you going to recognize both of them?"

"Yeah Boss."

Alright.

Ziva was the best on the team with a rifle, not counting Gibbs. And she was the lightest of them too. He stepped back. "Ziver, you're on the roof."

The girl passed Ziva her rifle. "On the left," she gestured up at the left side of his house. "Halfway up."

Ziva nodded and with a boost from Tim and Tony had pulled herself onto the roof and melted into its shadows. Gibbs caught a glimpse of her expression before she was lifted up. She looked happier than she had in weeks.

If anyone from the cartel did show a face in his neighborhood it was going to be blown off in a hurry.

"You two on the perimeter." Gibbs gestured to Tony and McGee. "Don't be visible from the street. Don't shoot anyone you can't identify as cartel. If you do fire try to avoid a kill shot, you got me?"

He said that last loud enough for Ziva to hear it.

They nodded. Someone to interrogate and the possibility for more intel would be a lot better than less at this point, because _less_ was definitely what they had. "Go."

They parted, heading toward the fence that enclosed his backyard.

Gibbs waved the three kids standing around him toward the door. "Food's in the basement."

He escorted them in and hovered by the top of the steps long enough to hear happy noises, and silverware. Then he put on the coffeepot and retreated to the couch.

An hour passed. When there was a slight shuffling noise from the backdoor Gibbs raised his pistol and went to meet it.

It was Kort, and two more kids.

Gibbs gestured the boys to the basement door. "Your friends are downstairs."

They brushed past him quickly, and he could feel the cold coming off them. They'd been outside.

He reacted just fast enough to grab Kort's arm as the man moved to follow them.

"You and I need to talk."

"In a moment." Kort moved determinedly toward the basement, wrenching his arm free violently. "I need to check something." And he was down the steps.

Gibbs stared after him. Then he refilled his coffee and moved back to the couch. He would give Kort five minutes.

The other man reappeared in three and sank down in the armchair next to Gibbs.

He looked strange sitting in the worn chair. The sheen of the white dress shirt under his coat caught the light like a photograph in a glossy magazine. His suit probably cost more than all of the furniture in Gibbs' house.

"Diablo has crawled back under his rock," Kort said. "We couldn't find a trace of him, or his new friends. We've secured a safe house. I have two cars outside."

To move all the kids?

"You think they'll be safer on their own?"

"Yes," Kort said firmly. "The new location is secure while your home is known. Anyway, they won't be on their own." Annoyed. "I'll be with them."

"Gray and Cassie?"

"Cass is on the roof. Spelling the guard. Gray - will probably be here soon."

"If the new location is more secure why not start moving them now? The longer they're here - "

"They're most secure wherever they are best defended, and right now that is here. I don't want to split them up for the same reason. We'll wait for the rest of them and move in one group." Kort shook his head, waved tiredly at the ceiling. "Anyway, this is just a precaution. The stunt today was likely about information for O'Donnell. Intimidation. A full on attack, particularly without the benefit of surprise - not his style. Too much exposure for the cartel. And he knows . . . " Kort leaned back into the chair. Closed his eyes. "A straightforward assault would be a bloodbath. They can defend themselves."

A pause.

Kort glanced his way. "The surveillance is secure?"

"Yeah."

The thumb drive was in a safe at NCIS, inside MTAC. Vance and Gibbs could get to it and nobody else.

"You got any leads on the FBI agents involved?"

"You know that Arena is one of the men who interrogated Gray, one of Dargas' unit?"

Gibbs nodded.

"My supervisor contacted the relevant FBI department heads. A few of them are hosting a Latin and South American security conference this week. There was a government flight into Dulles two days ago, set up specifically for the conference. Minimal security since it was all to be vetted government personnel. He must have come in under a false name and taken advantage of that flight. We tried to locate Arena, but if he's on a protection detail for O'Donnell -"

Gibbs nodded. They'd both be tucked away in a safe house, just as impossible to find as anyone in an NCIS house under Gibbs' protection.

"How'd he get the cars and the agents to conduct a chase?"

"I have no idea."

Gibbs had seen photos. Those were government cars. If they'd just disappeared or been stolen there would have been a stink across law enforcement agencies immediately - he and every other agent in DC would've known about it.

So O'Donnell had somehow convinced agents to pursue the kids, or to give him the cars to do it . . . ? And according to Kort, O'Donnell had also managed to join the conference but still fly under the radar of the department heads at the FBI . . . unless one of the heads was dirty . . . Unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility.

Too many ifs. They needed to get Agent Fred into an interrogation room. Ask a few questions. One thing in this mess, at least, that Gibbs could look forward to. Maybe he'd get Ziva to charge the Tasers.

They sat there for another half hour.

No sound, no movement.

"You have an estimated time of arrival?"

"He said soon."

Gibbs rubbed softly at the end-of-day stubble coming in on his neck.

They had a terse conversation, proposing methods of finding O'Donnell and gradually discarding them. With the right motivation a man like that knew how to hide his movements. Protecting the kids and investigating the FBI connection were the best moves they could make on O'Donnell right now. The cartel surveillance and the informants coming in tomorrow - they might prove helpful as well.

Eventually the girl with the curly hair and three of the oldest boys in the basement appeared at the top of the stairs. They walked out through the backdoor, and a minute later, his team walked in. Followed by Cassie.

**x**

Gibbs stood to look her over as his agents moved into the living room.

Kort stood as well, and walked toward the basement. He stopped to whisper something to her as he passed, and Cass grinned faintly.

"The kids insisted on taking over our positions, Boss," McGee muttered.

Gibbs nodded. Cold out or not, it would be infinitely worse to sit in the basement and stare at the walls.

But Cass wasn't moving immediately to the basement steps the way all the other kids had. She'd stopped in the kitchen, not coming any farther into the house, and not retreating either.

She looked fine.

Gibbs asked anyway.

"You okay?"

She nodded, calm as always. "Don't suppose anyone shot him after I left?" she asked.

"No," Ziva said.

A grumble, kind of hard to make out as Cass tipped to the side a bit to lean against a wall. "Why not?"

Ziva ventured a smile. "Because we would have been killed or arrested by the FBI?"

" . . . Meh."

Out of the corner of his eye Gibbs registered that Tony was moving restlessly, pacing in the small space between the living room and the front hall. One hand went up to jerk through his hair, then moved absently to smooth down his shirt.

"Come sit." Gibbs waved a hand at the couch and took the armchair for himself. "Everyone else alright?"

Cassie nodded, moving forward hesitantly and sinking into the sofa. "Truck's evasive driving . . . _skills_ banged us up. He's a maniac. But no one got hurt."

_Truck?_

Gibbs' next question was cut off, because at that point Dinozzo stopped and whirled to face her. And finally let loose.

"No one hurt? Really." It was a frustrated yell, absurdly loud in Gibbs' snug living room. "We don't know that yet, do we, _Cop_? And it wouldn't be thanks to _you_, anyway."

Gibbs stiffened, but Cass only sat up a little, mildly startled.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, you're not!" Tony's arms came up, gesticulating wildly. But he had the good sense to stay back.

"Tony - " Ziva said lowly.

"NO!" A roar. And then the words spilled out fast and furious. "No. You didn't tell us the plan until you knew we couldn't back out. And then you didn't have to stop, but you did. To let the others shake their tails - fine. Brilliant." Sarcastic. "And then," Tony laughed shortly, "and then you got out of the car. Eight men pointing guns at your head and you got _out_ of your _armored vehicle_!"

Tony paced again. Breathed. "You need to tell us if he's your father," he ground out. "Right now. We need to know."

Gibbs glanced between the two of them. Ready to hear the answer to that, sure. Also ready to throw his agent out of the house if that's what was required.

But Cassie looked perfectly fine. Seemed able to accept, intuitively, that Dinozzo wasn't a threat to her.

"He's nothing to me," she said. "And no, I didn't _have_ to get out of the car. But we did need to know why the FBI was chasing us, and revealing myself would make it more likely that we'd find out. We figured it was someone from the cartel. Didn't - " steadying breath. "Didn't know it would be him, obvi - "

"That is _bullshit_. What were you_ thinking_!" Dinozzo's voice went up at least an octave at the end there.

A pause. And then Cassie shrugged. "I was thinking that we weren't carrying anything they really want."

"_What?_"

Cass carried on, still perfectly calm.

And Gibbs began to suspect that she was, at least in part, deliberately egging Tony on. Winding him up. For fun.

He shook his head and considered digging out the bottle of Motrin stashed in the downstairs bathroom. The last time he'd had to deal with this sort of up-down group reaction to stress he'd been in the Marines. And it had given him a headache then, too.

"They wouldn't get into a fight that messy and public without a really good reason," she said patiently. Dinozzo's head looked like it was about to blow off. Cassie smiled. "And there wasn't a good reason, from their perspective. The cartel trained us. Anyone with the cartel would know we wouldn't have stopped in the first place if we were carrying anything they really want."

"You're insane!"

"I was right."

"You're _crazy!_"

Tony stormed toward the basement, probably looking for better space to pace. Or maybe Gibbs' bourbon.

Ziva watched him go, eyes lingering on the basement door. Her gaze shifted to the front window after a moment, seeming to contemplate the night.

And then she excused herself and went after her partner. McGee's gaze followed them and returned to Gibbs, sitting motionless next to Cassie.

Tim abruptly retreated, volunteering to guard the backdoor.

Cass turned to Gibbs. Grinned. "He is funny."

He raised an eyebrow and she laughed, a high-strung note. "Tony, I mean. Gray said he would be."

He let the silence play out a bit, and smiled slightly back at her. "If you say so."

Now that the fun was over she slumped into the couch. Exhausted again, stress creeping back into her eyes.

"You want something to eat?" Gray had taken coffee with his meals in Colombia . . . "Coffee?"

She said yes to the coffee, only then taking off her coat, and he moved into the kitchen.

"Milk or sugar?"

"Milk please. If you have it."

He opened the fridge, not really expecting to have it. But at some point the carton they'd sent down to the basement with dinner had been brought back up and returned to the fridge, plenty left in it to lighten a cup of coffee.

They sat quietly for a few minutes.

"You handled that well," he observed.

She glanced at him. Knew exactly what he was talking about. "Holly's been helping me."

He nodded.

"Sorry about that," she said. "With Burnett. That was . . . " she groped, and came up with nothing. Shrugged. "I appreciate your help," she said finally. The awkward apology of a teenager.

"From what Holly told me you weren't really in control."

"Yes . . . I regret that. It's better now."

She'd misunderstood, for once. It hadn't been meant as criticism. But Gibbs just nodded, keeping it easy. "Nothing to apologize for."

Cassie met his gaze over the mug, and they looked at each other straight on for a long moment. Guilt in her dark eyes. Shame.

So different from Gray. Still young.

He leaned forward, stage whispering the confidence. "I've been tempted to do the exact same thing." Perfectly true. More times than he could count.

"It felt pretty good," she admitted, relaxing slightly. "At first. Then I lost it. Kind of scary."

"It happens."

To people dealing with stress disorders, mostly.

They sat there for awhile, Gibbs weighing the best time to bring in Vance and Fornell, thinking over the strategy for the rest of the night and for tomorrow, after Gray finally reached them and the kids were gone and safe.

The second time Cassie wiped a hand across her face the movement registered.

Her head was down, eyes fixed on the mug in her hands like the coffee in it was the most fascinating show on earth. He couldn't actually see her face. But then she did it again.

He got up and came back with a box of tissues from the bathroom, setting it on the table between them.

She didn't take one. But she did seem to rally around glaring at the box.

"I shouldn't be afraid of him," she muttered. Frustration bled into her voice.

He waited for her to go on, but she'd fallen silent. Which was probably worse. Gibbs frowned down at his own coffee. It didn't seem likely that O'Donnell would mount an attack on his house. But it would still be reckless to call in Holly.

So . . .

"Most people are afraid of men like that," he finally said.

"No. You don't - I shouldn't be, really. Not him." She collected herself, tone almost angry. "He never hurt us."

Gibbs could have let that go. But O'Donnell was here, and there were still too many holes.

"Only Gray?"

Her eyes tracked to him slowly, and she looked at Gibbs for a long moment, completely neutral. Not giving anything away.

He returned the stare. Not searching or curious, not as an interrogator. Not bluffing, either. They knew about Gray.

"What do you think you know?"

Gibbs rubbed at a smudge on the battered old mug in his hands. Kept his focus there.

"He has marks on his left shoulder and chest. We saw something similar in documentation from a human rights group doing field work in central Colombia a few years ago. Read some of the interviews they conducted." Over two hundred of them.

Gibbs met her eyes, finally, to find her looking frankly back at him.

"You don't know anything."

He never thought he did. "Who does?" he asked seriously.

"Huh?"

"Does Holly know?"

An incredulous stare. "She's not going to tell you anything."

Gibbs waited, watching her closely. Trying to figure out if that meant the kid had spoken to Holly, or if it meant Cass didn't know. Or simply that she wouldn't tell him either way.

"But you know that," she said slowly.

And then she had it. It was incredible, how sharp she was. "Holly knows, he talks to her. And Kort I think. Some of us know," she flicked a finger toward the basement. "Not the little ones."

Gibbs nodded. That was good. Gray wasn't totally alone. And not all those kids were exposed to it, thank god. He already felt ill.

She noticed. And she understood. Seemed to consider the merits of spelling it out.

"Gray - he . . . made a deal. So Diablo never messed with us." She sucked in a slow breath, kept her voice low. "With the rest of us."

Gibbs stared at her.

_How the hell did he get the power to make a bargain like that._

_And Jesus, why would he want to -_

Now wasn't the time to ask.

And Cassie wasn't who the question was for, anyway, if he ever really wanted to know. Gibbs pressed his hands together and sat still.

"And now . . . all I can think is the deal is off," she said steadily. Ashamed. Angry. And above it all, terrified.

"We won't let him get to you."

Cassie nodded. "I know."

Gibbs studied her hunched form. She didn't believe him.

They sat in silence until Gibbs' phone rang. It was Abby.

She'd determined their equipment was clean and run the photos, but only found a few of the faces in the FBI database. The rest she'd identified as Colombian army.

* * *

><p>an: As the six-fingered man put it, "Not to fifty!" But yes indeed, to chapter 50 and beyond. Thanks for reading along and for the excellent feedback.


	51. Intel

**Chapter 51: Intel**

Kort and his team gathered in the living room even before he was off the phone, intently following Gibbs' terse side of the call. He hung up, but didn't have a chance to gather his thoughts and explain Abby's news.

As it turned out, he didn't have to explain it.

"So the drivers were Colombian special forces?"

Ridiculous. She hadn't even heard the other end of the conversation.

"Yeah."

"Should have guessed," Cass said.

When they all looked at her she shrugged. "They like to recruit from the Army. If he snuck into the country under the cover of going to a security conference he could easily bring military contacts loyal to the cartel with him. And I have been in chases like that one before," she admitted. "Just never on the chased side."

She sat calm and collected on his couch. Her mannerisms were so normal, just a little more mature than you would expect.

It was easy to forget.

But he remembered Gray stalking that patrol, now. Sitting calmly through an abusive interrogation. And the routine response to being shot, to grieving for a friend, played out on the floor just a few feet away. The smoothly executed operation that unfolded just hours ago, kids manipulating both his team and the people chasing them into the most advantageous positions for themselves.

_Cassie got out of the SUV. She was carrying an assault rifle, but held it out of sight . . ._

_The cartel trained us . . . Just never on the chased side._

Cassie was less abrasive. A lot less angry. But it was clear that she came from the same world as Gray.

He'd been thinking they didn't have much intel on the cartel. But that wasn't precisely true. His house was crawling with its former soldiers.

"You've carried out missions like this one before," he said. Only on the other side.

"Of course. Never in America," she replied evenly, "but Diablo can be. . . unpredictable. And more independent since he began his operations in South Africa. He may not be acting with the full knowledge or approval of the cartel."

Unpredictable? The man was a psychopath. And if he was off the cartel leash -

"Should we be worried about a direct assault?" Gibbs was reconsidering the backup idea.

But Cass shook her head, glancing at Kort. "Diablo is aggressive, not suicidal. The cartel will turn on him if he does anything to expose it to American retaliation. Londono has been able to buy or extort or assassinate his way to the cooperation he needs in Colombia and Mexico, that is why he is so confident there. But he has been cautious of the United States ever since he lost Conlon to the CIA. That was a warning - that the same thing could happen to him as happened to the Calera brothers, if he brought too much American attention to himself. It's what makes DC such a good place to hide from him."

"And American agents such valuable allies," Ziva observed.

Cassie grinned. "An Israeli would know."

Gibbs barely heard it.

_Conlon_, she'd said. _Since he lost Conlon to the CIA . . ._

He let his eyes drift from Cassie to Kort.

Conlon was one of the Irishmen, the ex-IRA who disappeared into Colombia in the early 90s. And then reappeared as part of the Calera cartel - just like O'Donnell.

Gibbs had suspected that Conlon was dead. But not that _the CIA_ had killed him.

He pinned Kort with an assessing stare. The man returned it, expressionless.

Gibbs had a sudden, sinking feeling that _Kort_ had killed Conlon.

There was a buzzing sound from the direction of Cassie's pants, then, the irritating noise incredibly loud in the quiet room.

She dug out a phone, glanced at the face of it.

"It's Gray," she said, and flipped it open. "Yes."

" . . . Yes, Truck wants to."

" . . . Hold on."

"He's twenty minutes out," she told the room, already jogging toward the basement steps. She was up again a few seconds later, followed by two kids who moved quickly toward the backdoor.

"Give it to me," Kort demanded. Cass shrugged and tossed him the phone as she passed him by.

He glanced at Gibbs' team, watching from the living room, and turned his back on them to mutter into the cell.

"FBI's not listening to all this?" Dinozzo looked at McGee.

"That's an old phone."

" . . . yeah? And?"

"Remote bugging works by wireless connection. I doubt that phone even has wireless capability."

"Only a nice phone is susceptable," Tony murmured. "That's not nice."

Two of the older kids came in through the backdoor, apparently relieved by the two that Cass sent out.

Gibbs recognized one of them as Tomas - the tall young man who had picked Gray up months ago, after he was shot and spent the night on Gibbs' couch. The other was the curly-haired girl who'd come down off his roof earlier that night.

Kort reluctantly gave the phone back to Cass. She set it down on Gibbs' kitchen table and glanced up at the other two kids. They gathered around and shared a look.

Cassie subtly shook her head.

The curly-haired girl turned quickly to assess the agents staring at them. Her hair was windblown, cheeks pink from the cold. She looked incredibly young.

She hastily turned her back on them.

"_No sé qué decir - no sé qué iba a hacer_," she said lowly.

Cass looked at her sharply. "_Bueno, no digas eso. Gray ya está enojado_."

The other girl's voice rose. "_Diego no iba -_ "

"_Eso no importa! Haz lo que quieras_."

Cassie leaned forward and decisively pressed a button on the open phone, ending one conversation by starting another. "You're on."

The three of them stood around the table and stared down at the cell.

"Gray," Tomas said finally. "If you don't say anything the people on the other end of the call don't know if you're there or not."

A tense pause. And then, "You want to talk. So I'm here. I'm hanging on every word, Truck."

Tony and Ziva looked at each other. Gray sounded distant, cold. Like before, in the jungle.

"He's a risk to everyone." Tomas - also known as Truck, apparently - spoke calmly.

"So?"

Truck glanced at the girls standing beside him and leaned forward to rest his hands on the table. "So he stays here with you. The rest - "

Kort stepped forward. "Not a good idea."

But the kids ignored him.

" - go to the safe house," Truck finished.

"Cop," Gray said through the speaker.

"No."

"Andy."

It was a vote, and it was rapid fire. All except for Andy. The other two looked at the curly-haired girl. She looked mutely back at them, the silence heavy.

"Truck. Explain to her how it works, with the phone." Gray's voice was flat through the speaker. But it came through as a taunt, and Gibbs smirked despite the tension in the room. Manipulative bastard.

Andy straightened predictably and glared at the cell. "I want to do what Diego would," she hissed. _You bastard_ was left unsaid.

Cass closed her eyes. But the rest of the room stared at the glowing black cell, laid open on the table.

" . . . It's your call now," Gray finally said, no inflection at all.

To Gibbs it was radiant of control.

"It should be his," she insisted, low and angry. Did she - ?

She _blamed_ Gray.

So many things the kid had said clicked quietly into place.

"I want to do what he would -"

"Sure. Somebody give Andy a Glock." The tone was light and cruel, laced with boredom. "And stand back. If she does it right her brain is going to go everywhere. Make sure you get it right under your chin, Andy girl - "

"Yes," she snapped. Furious. "Go."

"Agree. You ready to move?"

Cassie's eyes flew open to stare at the phone.

"Yeah, sooner the better," Truck said.

"Then go."

Silence, and Cass reached for the phone. The call was over -

"_Hermano_," Cassie said quietly.

" . . . Yeah."

No, it wasn't. Gray was still there.

"What do you think?"

"He's gone," Gray said simply.

Tomas leaned even farther forward, from relief or intensity Gibbs couldn't tell, almost hovering over the phone. "The agents?"

A humorless laugh, tinny through the speaker. "Really gone."

"Yeah," Truck nodded. "Agree. Cop?"

"Yes."

They glanced at Andy, but she just looked at the phone. Lost.

"I won't see you," Truck said. "All good, _hermano_?"

"Si, good." The tone quieter, if not softer.

And then the call was really over.

Kort spun and disappeared into the basement, and Andy followed him. Cass looked pissed as she swept the phone off the table and shoved it back into her pocket.

Gibbs glanced between Cassie and Tomas. "Someone want to tell me what just happened?"

"Most of us will go to the new house," Tomas said. "A few will stay here. Is that good? - okay?"

So they'd decided to split up. And Kort and Cassie weren't happy about it.

"Yeah, fine."

Within five minutes most of the kids who had been in Gibbs' basement were transferred to the two SUVs sitting in the driveway. Only Alex and two of the younger ones remained in the basement. Cassie and Kort prowled Gibbs' backyard, a skeleton watch.

Apparently Kort wasn't going with the bulk of the kids to the new house after all. Gibbs offered his agents as guards at the new location, but was firmly turned down.

"That happened quickly," Ziva muttered. She stood at the window, parting the curtain just enough to get a clear view of the cars filled with children driving away. "I do not like this."

Gibbs was still sitting in his armchair, elbows on his knees, his agents standing grouped around him. He looked up and waved for them to sit down. "They're used to it." Which was useful, but actually made the situation more infuriating. They shouldn't be used to it.

"McGee," he tossed the portable to his agent. "I want Abby to check on what we have available."

They discussed the possibility and the merits of moving Gray and the kids who remained to an NCIS safe house, and using backup for a guard to free up the team. But Vance would have to be brought in first -

Tony was mid-sentence when he broke off, eyes suddenly centered on the hallway leading to the backdoor. Ziva followed his gaze.

Gray was standing there.

When he saw them looking at him he continued forward, out of the shadows. His clothing was dark and the movement was distinctly predatory, silent and effortless. McGee was facing away from the kitchen, sitting in one of the dining room chairs. Gray moved swiftly enough to be standing practically on top of him by the time Tim turned around.

McGee grunted as he surged to his feet, stumbling slightly backwards before he regained his footing.

Gray just stood there.

Tim waited for Gibbs to say something, or maybe Ziva or Tony. But none of them said anything at all, even when McGee glanced back at them. He frowned at the disquiet of the room, and the boy standing in front of him.

He shouldn't have looked so menacing.

"Gray. Are you . . . alright?"

"I'm fine, Agent McGee."

It was easy and friendly, almost too sincere.

Gray paused. And added a polite, "It's been a long time. How are you?"

As he spoke he shifted smoothly toward one of the dining room walls, leaning slightly on a chair placed there, and McGee instinctively turned to keep facing him.

"Good," McGee said cautiously. "Glad you're alright."

"You're good? That's great, McGee. I'm glad you're good."

Silence.

"Uh - Cassie and Kort are outside," McGee said. Never any good at the awkward silences.

But Gray was.

He raised his eyebrows and for the first time seemed to settle his focus on McGee, and keep it there with blank, washed out eyes.

That's what made him seem menacing, McGee realized - he was totally blank. It wasn't normal.

The weight of the room's silence lent the look force. And the slow, thoughtful words, when they came, fell heavily.

"That is so useful to know, Agent McGee. I'm remembering now. You're the smart one." Gray smiled. "Right?"

Tim finally got it, and just stood there warily. Closer to the kid than anyone else. Feeling a lot more exposed.

"It makes so much sense that you would have that kind of intelligence. I mean, consider this . . . _amazing_ team you have." Gray waved gently toward the agents in Gibbs' living room. "That's a lot of intelligence. I'm not nearly so smart." A pause. "Do you even know how smart you all are? What's the average IQ do you think, McGee?"

When McGee didn't answer Gray leaned forward slightly. "Go on and guess, McGee."

The smile was the same, but the tone - less sickeningly friendly. Almost real.

Tim glanced again at Gibbs, but the boss was just sitting there, looking at Gray.

Letting Tim be the foil.

Fine. McGee would play. "Okay. 130."

Gray's eyes widened, and it would have been funny if it wasn't so slick, and the feel of the air so dangerous. McGee scanned the kid's body. He was carrying at least a pistol.

"Tim McGee. Gibbs must have his hands full with you. Selling yourself so short." The words were slow, confident, clashing oddly with the charged air. "Don't you know how dangerous it is to doubt your team?" An assessing smile. "Did having a powerful daddy give you low self-esteem, McGee?"

"No."

"But you feel insecure," Gray said thoughtfully. "You shouldn't though, McGee. You're all so intelligent. And experienced. And connected too, aren't you. Do you know why Tony's father was angry when his son decided to be a jock? Become a cop?"

McGee shifted, annoyed and tense. Why weren't they talking about something that mattered - like a new safe house, for god's sake?

"McGee?"

"No."

Gray laughed. It was the same laugh that Gibbs gave to murderers when they'd hanged themselves in the interrogation room. Like a snake laughing at a rat.

McGee felt a trickle of sweat run down his lower back. He hadn't even realized he was nervous, until he felt that. And then he was really nervous.

"You don't even understand why I'm asking. Tony does, though."

McGee glanced at Tony. He was sitting stone still. No fidgeting, no pacing now. It made him look like an entirely different person.

"I don't think it's relevant," McGee tried. "We were talking about - "

"It's relevant because he's so _smart_, McGee. Daddy Dinozzo thought he was wasting his potential. Why play sports for Ohio State when you can go to Harvard? Make all the grades without breaking a sweat?"

McGee was silent.

And then he frowned. Gray was shifting, turning - moving a little oddly, but very fast.

Tim registered that Gibbs was moving too, reacting decisively.

Everything was still again in less then a second. But Gray was holding Gibbs' rifle, the one that had been leaning against the dining room wall. The one he'd been standing in front of.

He held it casually, one handed. As if he had just picked it up to admire it, and braced the butt easily against his body. But they were standing so close - the rifle was pointed at McGee's head.

Tim glanced slowly toward his team. Ziva and Tony sat motionless, just as they had before. But Gibbs had his pistol in his hands, leveled at Gray's chest.

"Aren't you going to answer the question, McGee?" the boy said.

Gibbs wasn't going to let anything happen to one of his agents. Not right in front of his eyes. But the boss didn't say anything, either. That meant he thought this conversation had a point. Even if it was just to let Gray vent.

So he thought the kid was just making a point. Not that any of them knew Gray well enough to really _know_. So Gibbs wasn't so sure that he hadn't drawn his gun.

McGee's head started to pound, a headache timed into his heartbeat.

"Tony's a good agent," he said finally.

"Is he? He doesn't have Ziva's smarts though, does he. All those languages, that memory. But that's not even what she's best at, is it?"

Gray waited.

"No."

The kid nodded, the rifle somehow rock steady on Tim's head even as his body moved slightly with the motion. "That's right. It takes a certain amount of intelligence to be that good at killing people." He leaned forward slightly. Smiled again. "She's so good she used to do it accidently."

A pause.

"But she's not the smartest either, McGee. You know who is, don't you?"

He wanted Tim to answer.

"Gibbs."

"I agree, McGee. You can't run circles around people the way Gibbs does without being the smartest agent in the room. You know what makes him so much smarter than you, McGee? It's not the IQ."

Gray paused, but answered the question himself. And when he did, the smile fell away, and all the pretense, the fake friendliness was gone. "He anticipates, McGee. He prepares. Not much takes Gibbs by surprise, does it."

It took everything Tim had to glance away from the barrel pointed at him.

The kid wasn't pretending anymore. The voice wasn't fake. And the rifle looked blacker than it had before.

But Tim tore his eyes away from it, to look at Gibbs.

Still Gibbs didn't say anything.

So McGee took a breath and plowed on.

"You can't think - Gibbs didn't know that O'Donnell was here."

Gray smiled again. Not fake. Just cold. "Because your team wasn't smart enough to track him down, or because you just didn't care enough to do it? What do you think, McGee? Was Gibbs incompetent, or just too busy doing other things?"

Tim stared at him. For the first time in the conversation he didn't know what the answer was supposed to be. He got the impression that it was the first real question the kid had asked.

"He slipped through the cracks, Gray," Tony finally spoke. His usually animated voice flat. "I'm sorry."

Gray ignored him. "Do you know why Gibbs doesn't like apologies, McGee?"

"They're a sign of weakness."

Gray laughed. "Do you really believe that?"

" . . . N-no."

"I bet Gibbs doesn't, either. Thing is, he's put together a team that shouldn't have to apologize, McGee. Because you're just that good. Nothing should slip through the cracks. No one should be able to outsmart you. If you have to apologize it means you weren't trying hard enough, if you were trying at all. Apology," he said quietly, "means you fucked up."

The barrel looked huge. McGee nodded slightly.

"You shouldn't be so afraid, Tim," Gray said softly. "Gibbs knew I would go for the rifle. He thinks ahead. But then, so do I. That's how I know he's not going to shoot me. Do you know why?"

Tim didn't have an answer.

"What are you still doing here, Hook?"

" . . . like it here."

McGee's eyes shot to the basement doorway. Alex was standing just far enough out of it to have a good angle on the living room. His pistol looked like it was trained on Gibbs.

"Hook will go for Gibbs first," Gray said. "Then Ziva, she's the fastest draw. Then Tony - he's the most accurate with a side arm, actually. Just not the fastest shot. Obviously you would be dead first. It's not Gibbs' intelligence that you most admire, is it?"

God, his head hurt. "No."

"It's the fact that he would kill me without hesitating, isn't it? You don't even think he'd feel bad. Do you, McGee?"

"I most admire his courage. And his leadership," Tim said honestly.

"His courageous ability to kill me without hesitating. And then his leadership in not even feeling bad about it?"

McGee glanced at Gibbs. The boss's gaze was calm, fixed on Gray. The gun in his hands steady.

Gray nodded as if McGee had agreed. "I think you're right. Do you know why he wouldn't feel bad?"

McGee didn't say anything. The questions felt like punches, shoves, pushing him back on the ropes. Boxing him in. Not because what Gray was saying was so terrible, really. It was just too perceptive. He knew too much about them, and he was extremely angry.

"C'mon, McGee. Gibbs knows why you admire him. He's not going to feel bad to hear you say it. Why doesn't Gibbs ever hesitate?"

McGee was silent.

"Tell him to answer me, Gibbs."

And Gibbs spoke. "You can go on, Tim."

McGee took a breath. "His training."

"Don't pretend to be more stupid than you are, McGee. I know exactly how smart you are. And how dumb."

" . . . He's desensitized."

"That's right. He doesn't feel things the same way you do, McGee. It makes him brave, and cold. Calculating. Isn't that right, Gibbs?"

Gibbs didn't say anything.

"He could _calculate_ not to bother with Diablo. He'd be _irritated_ if Cop's head had been blown off today, but he wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Lucky for me, my entire team is desensitized. No doubters like you, McGee. No illusions about how we've been played. And no hesitation. Hook stayed here because he's decided he likes Gibbs, yeah? But he won't hesitate to kill him. He wouldn't even feel bad about it. Go back downstairs, Hook."

There wasn't any sound from the top of the steps. But when McGee's eyes darted that way the doorway was empty.

"You haven't been played," Gibbs said into the quiet.

Gray kept his eyes on McGee.

And then he looked at the rifle, and raised it very slightly. So that it was pointed at the ceiling.

"Is this what you used to kill the Caleras?"

It was obscene, to see a weapon like that cradled so casually in the hands of a boy. Even a boy like Gray.

"Yes."

Gray looked the rifle over oddly, like he'd never seen a gun before. "I don't think you've been trying very hard, Gibbs. I don't think you've been doing your best. But you can't pick a team and then start to doubt it halfway through the game, can you?"

"We'll get him," Gibbs said.

"I won't hesitate."

"I know." Gibbs' pistol was still centered on Gray's chest. But the tone was understanding.

Gray lowered the rifle and leaned it back against the wall. Then he stepped close to McGee. Very close, and looked up into his eyes.

"No hard feelings, McGee," he whispered, friendly and serious and so clearly unfeeling it sent a chill down Tim's spine. "But it's important to make sure the team is properly motivated."

McGee swallowed. But he hadn't worked eight long years with Gibbs for nothing. He may not be completely fearless, but he could handle himself around an enraged killer. "We didn't know he was here. Gibbs didn't know."

"I believe you, McGee." Gray stepped past him, heading toward the couch. "That's what concerns me."

Gibbs reholstered his pistol as Gray sat next to Tony.

The silence was leaden.

"Hello, Ziva."

She just looked at him, eyes dark. He didn't seem to mind.

"How was your day, Tony?"

"Exciting."

"I bet."

Tony looked down at his hands, gripping each other tightly. "You don't have to threaten us. We're on your side."

"I would never threaten any of you, Tony. But I believe in clear communication."

The thick silence descended again, insanely uncomfortable.

Gray just sat there, calm and indifferent and completely relaxed on the couch.

"You staying here?" Gibbs asked.

Silence, for a moment.

He's not going to answer, Tony thought. Same as the day we met him. We're nowhere -

But then he answered. As if he always had.

"I've got a second location. Kort's gone back to the Agency to check it out. If it's clean we'll move there." Gray paused. "Who else is here?"

"Alex and two of the younger kids are downstairs. Cassie was patrolling outside last I knew."

Silence.

"What did you mean, he's gone?" Ziva, testing the waters. "On the phone?"

"Diablo is gone. Or in the process of leaving."

"What makes you so sure?"

"He's paranoid about security. And he knows that we would find and kill him if he stayed."

"And the agents he's been working with, you think they went with him?"

Gray tipped his head a bit. Amused again. "No."

"You think he killed them."

"He's not nearly as fond of cops as I am. And they would have realized who he is soon enough, if they hadn't already. Then they would be no more use to him."

"Cassie said the cartel doesn't want to piss off the US agencies. But you think he'll turn on the American agents he's been working with?"

Gray shrugged. "How pissed is the FBI going to be? For O'Donnell to have slipped in unnoticed means the people he was with were keeping things to themselves. They'll assume anyone who was working with him was dirty. You people don't like to admit to dirty Feds. Embarrassing. Not something the FBI will want to write a press release about. But Diablo would kill them anyway, because he's against the rails. He doesn't care about pissing off the FBI. He's probably moved to the top of Londono's hit list with this stunt, if he wasn't there already."

They sat silent for several moments, absorbing a whole speech from Gray.

Gibbs beat Ziva to the question. "Then why did he do it?"

Gray looked at Gibbs for a split-second. It was the first time his eyes had even wandered that way since he walked in. "Because it might have worked."

Gibbs finally felt his anger surge.

It wasn't the fact that the kid had come into his house and pointed a weapon at the youngest and most vulnerable member of his team. Or that he'd vaguely threatened them all. It was_ this_.

That Gibbs hadn't even shot him for that and the kid still didn't fucking trust him.

"Might have _worked?_"

Gray's head tilted a bit, as if he was listening to something beautiful, like a symphony. As if he wanted to savor Gibbs' anger.

"He had fun today," Gray said simply. "And he probably thinks that if he gives us to Londono he would be forgiven. For this and his side business in Africa. Londono doesn't tolerate freelancers, or unnecessary risk. But for Diablo that's where all the fun is."

Gibbs leaned forward, obviously seething. "But _you_ could get him forgiveness. Want to tell me why Londono cares so much about a bunch of punk kids?"

Silence.

And Gibbs lost it. "You think we're not doing all we can? I'd like to know how the hell you expect me to protect you when you don't tell us a goddamn thing."

Gray still wouldn't look at him. His eyes scanned the bookshelf to his left, as if he was thinking about his bedtime reading. As if Gibbs had just offered him some ice cream.

"What exactly do you need to know?" he said lazily. "The cartel is looking for us. I'd appreciate a heads up if any of its top lieutenents fly into town. Or if they set up a joint Colombian-American team to hunt us down. Mental retardation isn't listed in your medical file, though, so I'd assumed you had already grasped that."

"And I was supposed to be in touch - how?"

"What does that matter? You didn't have the intel. You didn't care to make sure you got it." Gray looked at him, finally. But only for a moment. His eyes shifted indifferently from Gibbs to Tony. "And if you did have it, willful ignorance isn't my problem. You knew how to find me if you wanted to."

* * *

><p><em>an: Any readers more knowledgeable in Spanish than Google Translate are welcome to step forward! But, for those like me who know nada, the glossary for this chapter:_

_No sé qué decir. No sé qué iba a hacer: I don't know what to say. I don't know what he would do._

_Bueno, no digas eso. Gray ya está enojado: Well, don't say that. Gray's already angry._

_Diego no iba - : Diego would not -_

_Eso no importa. Haz lo que quieras: That doesn't matter. Do what you want._

_Hermano: Brother (and term of endearment between very close friends, I'm assured by Google)_


	52. Daniel

**Chapter 52: Daniel**

Gibbs stood up and walked away before he started to really yell.

He picked up the portable phone to dial Fornell instead, letting him know that Fred Arena, and probably the rest of Dargas's unit, was in trouble.

He had the shortest conversation he'd ever had with Tobias and when he turned back around they were all still sitting as he'd left them. His agents looking at him. Gray not.

Why he was still beating his head against this wall he didn't know.

He was a cop, and military, and Gray loathed both of those things. Gray looked at all male authority figures with suspicion, and probably instinctive fear, even though he never showed it. Gibbs screamed male authority, even when he wasn't trying to.

It may be impossible for the kid to ever really trust someone like Gibbs.

He'd thought once that the few things that connected them, that they had in common, would be enough. Enough for some kind of understanding. But they weren't.

It made it harder, that Gray couldn't trust him. But not impossible. He would have to rely on whatever Kort and Tony and Holly could do to make sure Gray was alright. Gibbs would get what information he needed from Gray through Tony or Kort to pursue the cartel. And he would simply let the kid go.

You can't protect someone who doesn't want your protection. You can't force trust. Hell, given what Gray had been through it felt cruel to try.

Tony was standing, walking toward him.

"I need to talk to you," Dinozzo said, and walked by, toward the back porch.

Gibbs glanced between McGee, still sitting in the kitchen chair, and Ziva and Gray on the couch. McGee looked like hell. But an interrogation like that, however brief, would shake almost anyone. "McGee, get back to the Navy Yard. Try to reconstruct O'Donnell's movements from the flight that went into Dulles."

McGee nodded gratefully, picking up his coat and turning toward the door.

"Agent McGee."

Tim paused, and reached up automatically to catch whatever Gray had thrown at his head. It was a cell phone. An old one.

"Number's on the back," Gray said.

McGee programmed the number into Gibbs' portable phone. The boss shoved a piece of paper with a bunch of numbers scribbled on it into Tim's hand and literally pushed him out the door.

Finally Gibbs looked at Ziva and Gray, both of them sitting irritatingly calm and collected on the couch, and pointed at Gray. He let his pissed-off state of mind come through clearly. "Touch my rifle again and I will shoot you."

Then he followed Dinozzo out to the back deck.

Tony was leaning against one of the railings, all graceful lines and earnest persuasion, all charm as he turned to Gibbs. Dinozzo's version of guilt. He'd been gearing up for this performance alright, probably for months. "I sent Cassie toward the front of the house," he said cheerfully. "It's possible she has the same superpower hearing that Gray does, though, so - "

"What do you want, Dinozzo."

Tony nodded slightly, bracing his arms behind him on the wooden railing, like he was steadying himself in a storm. "You can't give up on him, Boss."

"Excuse me?"

"He wouldn't, you know, that threat . . . He doesn't know any other way to protect them - "

"I know why he did it, Tony."

"Yeah. Well, I think he's just freaked out by what happened today. O'Donnell scares them."

Gibbs crossed his arms over his chest.

Tony looked away, and moved his head up, oddly, like he was working a kink out of his neck. "Alright. It freaked me out too."

You could say that. You could also point out that Dinozzo had been pacing and shouting and stomping around like a good old boy whose darling little girl had snuck out to drink beer and play chicken.

It was the first time that Gibbs had seen it - what Tony would be like as a father.

Good. And loud.

"Yeah well, Dinozzo. That's why we don't get personally involved."

An awkward nod. "It wasn't until after he was held by the FBI," he said stiffly. "I wanted to let him know that his information helped. And I tried to see how the kid I put in rehab was doing but he'd checked himself out, against advice. Thought I'd find out what happened."

Yeah. That was nice. The kind of impulse that Gibbs could put away though, because as Gray had so determinedly pointed out, he was _desensitized_.

Gibbs preferred bastard.

And it didn't change the fact that there were damn good reasons for not getting personally involved. Just like he had good reasons for backing off from a kid who definitely did not want his input in the first place.

"I don't care, Dinozzo."

That hadn't come out exactly right.

Gibbs waved a hand. "I don't mind." Somebody had to stay in touch with the kid. He didn't want to scare Dinozzo off. But . . . "You do an end run like that around me again and you're fired."

Tony went on as if he hadn't heard him. "I showed the sketch we had around a few - "

"Schools," Gibbs broke in impatiently. "You told us how you would find him. And I explained to you why you shouldn't. Don't ever ignore my orders. I give you one you can't live with, you come talk to me. Shouldn't have to be telling you this ten years in, Dinozzo." He took a step toward the door. "But it's done. Just don't do it again."

He reached out for the handle.

"Boss, don't - Gibbs! Please."

"_What_."

"Look, I remember. You thought it wasn't safe. And not worth it, right? Because you thought he would come find you when he was ready. But you were wrong," Tony said cautiously. "He wasn't ever going to come to you. You don't understand him, boss."

He fucking well knew that. He also knew Tony was delusional if he thought _he_ understood that kid. Dinozzo had no understanding of what Gibbs did recognize in Gray. The violence, and the kind of loss that could burn you to nothing, leave nothing of you. Even the ability to feel in the same way.

But that hadn't turned out to be a good foundation for a working relationship between him and the kid. Go figure.

"So why don't you enlighten me."

Tony ignored the harsh tone. Tried again. "Look, Gibbs. You don't - You don't know . . . "

Apparently Dinozzo was at a loss to explain all the things that Gibbs did not understand, or know.

And Gibbs had waved good-bye to his last shred of patience five miles back. Everyone was shaken, packed in and around his house like explosive sardines. None of them needed any more drama.

"Spit it out, Dinozzo. We've got work to do."

"He's never met anyone like you, Gibbs," Tony said flatly. "He just needs time. He needs you to be patient."

Anyone like him?

Gibbs had snapped the necks of two unarmed men within hours of meeting the kid. He knew that should be frightening. But Gray met and tangled with people a hell of a lot more extreme than Gibbs, so that didn't wash.

Did it?

The other killers in Gray's life probably hadn't been interested in earning the kid's trust. So there was that.

But _time?_ It'd been nine months. It wasn't like Gibbs went around killing people for fun on the odd afternoon. And he'd been careful to never lose control in front of Gray. Not at the CIA debrief, not even with the out of control FBI agents.

Gibbs crushed a spike of frustration before his second could catch it.

He and the kid had talked about the patrol he killed anyway. Gray understood why he'd done it, Gibbs was sure of that. There wasn't anything more he could do to explain himself. And he didn't see how more time would make a difference.

"Don't you - the one adult he trusts most in this world is Kort. Kort!"

Gibbs rolled his shoulders. If they were standing out here so that he could admire another temper tantrum, or more of Dinozzo's juvenile posturing with Kort, so help him . . .

"So help me Dinozzo, if this goes back to your pissing contest with Kort I'm going to deck you." And he'd stay on the deck for a good long time.

"Yeah, fine - we're besties with Kort now, I forgot."

Tony paced, distracted and tense and unhappy. Trying to figure out the words.

When it came to the things deep down, neither of them was very good at saying the words. Or particularly motivated to try. They let people assume there wasn't anything more to them. The bastard. The frat boy. Neither bothered to break the habit unless it was something that needed to be said. Gibbs could count with the fingers on one hand the number of times it'd ever been necessary between them.

But this was apparently one of them.

He forced himself to relax, and leaned back against the railing. Gibbs could wait. If only because he knew that his second would be a distracted wreck until it was addressed. Whatever it was.

Dinozzo stilled finally, looking for awhile out into the black canvas of the backyard. "Do you know why I became a cop?"

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. Hardly anyone knew the answers to the real questions about Dinozzo. And Tony was well aware of that. He wasn't expecting a reply.

"When I first went to school I was too short to be on the ball team. My school had a really good team."

Tony was a kid when he first left home, Gibbs knew that.

And it finally sunk in.

He didn't know why it hadn't before. The same information, a slightly different angle, and the puzzle fit.

For all that he's always been independent, Gibbs had rarely in his life been totally on his own, and never as a child. His father had tried to take care of him, much as Gibbs rebelled. And then the Corps, and then his family, and then the wives. Franks and NCIS. Never perfect, sometimes not even okay. But something was always there. So reliably that he'd never questioned what would have happened to him if nothing was.

Gibbs looked Tony over, as he had a thousand times before, trying to see with fresh eyes.

It wasn't loss that he was looking at, it wasn't like anything that he really _knew_. It was a person built in a different way to him.

"But I liked sports and everybody had to have an extra-curricular, so they let me help out. I was the coach's assistant. Helped him get everything ready, helped him pick up after, do stats breakdowns in his office, stuff like that. He was a retired cop. Great ball skills. Had fun with the guys on the team. He was tough, didn't take any crap. But everybody loved him anyway."

Dinozzo paused. "I'd been his assistant for three weeks when I got a call down to the dean's office. Coach was there, and the school nurse. They were concerned." Tony huffed a laugh. "It was a good school, they took care of the kids there. So, you know . . . and he'd had thirty years on the force, twenty as a detective in Chicago. Nothing slipped through the cracks on that team."

Tony folded his arms over his chest. "They wanted to know if I'd had any bad experiences. Thought I might have been abused. Coach noticed I was fine with the guys on the team, but when it was just him and me I shut down. He didn't understand it." He glanced to Gibbs, standing still and solid and absolute on the other side of the dark patio. "I was never abused. I'd just never met a man like that."

Dinozzo looked at him for a beat. Like Gibbs would understand now.

Gibbs understood that he was the coach. And apparently, a young Dinozzo wouldn't relate to him either, any more than Gray. He understood that Tony was telling him he didn't count neglect as abuse, and Gibbs wasn't invited to go anywhere near that anyway.

But that's about all he got out of it. Dinozzo had definitely never avoided Gibbs, so somewhere along the line he must've gotten over it.

_He's never met anyone like you . . . just never met a man like that._

"A man like what?"

"He was . . . _pure_." Dinozzo smiled. "He'd laugh till he cried if he heard me say that, but it's true. He was reliable. Honest. Never saw him anything but sober - he didn't have to be drunk to have a good time. Had probably seen some serious shit, but he still loved life. Loved his wife, didn't chase other women because he honestly didn't want them. Spent time with his kids because he honestly liked them. And his team too. There were a few kids there who really did need help, and he helped them out. Just his existence - it stood for something really good."

Tony paused, looking down at the railing to pick at the loose paint.

"It intimidated the hell out of me. When I was thirteen I knew how to mix cocktails and how to lie. That's all I knew. I'd never really believed there was anything else, I thought anything more reliable was kid's stuff. Like Santa Claus. I didn't know how to be honest. Was dead certain Coach wouldn't like me if I ever was."

Dinozzo paused, and finally left off examining the wood under his hands only to turn his attention to the yard and study the oak that dominated it. Gibbs' eyes never wavered from his profile.

"So I went mute when he was around," he continued. His voice was loose, a shade too animated, and Gibbs could tell he was really unsettled. It took a few years, but these days Gibbs could always tell. "Didn't know what to say. He turned every role model I'd ever had on their heads, and I was too . . . I don't know, awe's not the right word. I just didn't want to taint him. We were from different worlds and I thought it was safer to keep it that way."

Tony cocked his head. Shifted his gaze to the evergreens. "Eventually I got to know him and relaxed. Tried to shock him for awhile." He grinned. "Now I know what his beat must have been like I can see how pathetic that probably was. After awhile the intimidation turned into hero-worship, I guess. He laughed it off. I don't think he ever really understood what he was to me. But that doesn't matter. You just need to give the kid time, Boss." A pause. "You've got to _give_ him your time," he said seriously.

Gibbs shook his head.

Tony still idolized the men he looked up to. Men who were like the father he'd wanted, and never had. Men who just showed up. He tended to believe they could do anything. Sometimes that kind of blindness to his faults, to any limitation really, worked in Gibbs' favor. But not always.

Gibbs knew exactly why that coach laughed off the hero worship he got. Because it was _laughable_.

"I'm not - " Gibbs huffed softly. He couldn't actually let himself laugh. Dinozzo was rarely this serious.

And Gibbs knew that he was a good team leader. And maybe sometimes, in the past, he'd done things that looked impressive. Heroic to other people.

But never with Gray. He'd sucked that kid into a nightmare in Colombia - Gibbs had no illusions at all about what it cost the boy to kill that patrol. And when they'd gotten back to DC, what had he done for him? Held him down, when Ducky treated him. Posted bail, when the kid was trying to save his friend's life. He'd watched, with those FBI agents. Watched until it went way too far.

It had bothered him to see the kid attacked. To hold him down, and watch him walk away. But Gray was right - Gibbs hadn't actually lost sleep over any it. Not since Colombia, when the kid was wounded, in danger and in pain, and Gibbs was helpless to stop it.

Except it had never really been Gray's scream that reached him, had it? It was the echo of his girl's cries that Gibbs heard, a child long gone.

It wasn't that he didn't feel anything. He cared about his job. About his team. It was just that things didn't go as deep, after Kelly died. Nothing but his anger had ever reached him in the same way.

He' failed to protect the boy in his care. Had failed the civilians who died in the fire set to rescue him - children, some of them, and plenty of defenseless women, maybe their mothers. That made him angry. But it hadn't gutted him, not like it did Tony and Ziva. Nothing could break him after his family was taken from him. That level of pain, and of happiness too, it was like they had been burned away.

In that one respect, Gibbs knew he was every bit as invincible - as untouchable - as Tim and Tony believed him to be.

Maybe Dinozzo was right. Maybe he should have tracked the kid down when they got back to DC, forced the contact. But Gibbs hadn't. And he couldn't imagine that it would have made much of a difference.

"Dinozzo - he doesn't even like the idea of heroism. If I _was_ one he wouldn't be impressed - "

"No," Tony said patiently. "He loves the idea of heroes. What he doesn't like is that it's such a pile of shit. Because where he's from they don't exist, not any more than Santa. None came for him. All he had to do was open his eyes and look around to see that heroes are so much bullshit. But now he's met you, and he's confused."

Tony was laying it all out there. He really believed what he was saying, and Gibbs wasn't into mocking his people when they'd laid themselves bare. But Dinozzo must have been watching _Excalibur_ again, or maybe _Lord of the Rings_. The fantasies.

"I haven't done anything for him," Gibbs said steadily.

"You have. You've been there. You can't let him - it doesn't matter if he doesn't trust you with _everything_. You don't understand what it means that he trusts you at all, someone who really has power over him. That's fucking terrifying Gibbs, if you've never done it before. He's working up the nerve to throw himself off a cliff. It takes time. You just have to be there. You have to let him try."

Gibbs sighed reluctantly. He understood what Tony was saying. But that didn't mean he was the right person for the job - not for someone like Gray. And the kid had made that pretty clear. "I'm not your coach, Dinozzo. I'm not . . . _pure._" And Gray was well aware of that. Probably understood it better than the agent standing in front of him.

Tony may have been self-centered when he was young, hollow, even. But he'd never blurred the line. Not like Gibbs, or Ziva. That's not who Tony was. Not even when he stared it in the face, or wore its mask. It wasn't in him.

Gibbs may have pulled himself back from it, but he knew what evil was. Knew that he carried the potential for it, even if he chose a different path. There were times when he was tempted. When he got confused. There had been days . . .

"You're not perfect." Tony broke the odd, solemn quiet. "But that's not the same thing. Look, he doesn't know what to say to you. He doesn't know . . . he's not sure that you'll be able to handle it. Who he is. Just be patient, alright? By the time I left that school I'd talked Coach's ears off. I knew that I could never be that man. Really be like him. But I also knew that I wanted to be as close as I could." Dinozzo looked away suddenly at that. Coloring, maybe, but it was too dark for Gibbs to see.

"Dinozzo - " Gibbs rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe he was being suckered into this. "You're a good man."

A tepid grin. "Thanks Boss. You can be sure I'll tell Ziva you said so." He shrugged. "I know I'm not bad. But I'm not Santa Claus either."

Gibbs kept staring. Surely he was not Santa Claus in this scenario.

Dinozzo glanced at him, grinned for real. And squinted back into the dark. "Gibbs . . . compared to the men he's known, you are. And on top of that, you're real. Better than Santa," he said, and nodded decisively. Absurdly.

Gibbs turned to see Tony better. He wasn't perfect, far from it, and if anyone really knew that it was Tony. He'd walked out on the team so many times. Walked out on so many women . . . he hadn't deserved their loyalty in the first place. "I'm a bastard. I've killed defenseless men practically in front of him. I've been divorced three times - "

Tony cut him off. "Not going to argue with the bastard part. You wouldn't be any use to him if you were _nice _anyway. But you killed to keep us safe. To keep us from having to do it. And you were faithful to all those women, I bet. Right through the end."

Gibbs didn't say anything. Because of course he was. But trying to protect a child, being faithful to your wife - those weren't the standard for _good_. Not getting the kid into trouble, not marrying those women in the first place, stringing them along for selfish reasons - that would have been a hell of a lot better than what he'd done.

"You don't get it, and you probably never will, Gibbs. Because you believe in good people and you always have. . . . Then, course you do," Dinozzo trailed off, talking himself in circles. "You're one of them."

"Dinozzo," Gibbs rubbed a hand over his face. For crying out loud. "You believe in _good_."

Gibbs had to lean in, hold himself still to catch Dinozzo's reply.

" . . . I believed in my coach. I believe in you, most of the time." Tony frowned. "But I know there are places where good doesn't exist. I'm pretty sure they outnumber the rest. Just give him some time to get over the shock, Gibbs. Took me a year to even warm up to Coach, and compared to Gray my life's been a fairy tale. You just have to be patient, alright? You just have to listen to him. You're good at that, when you want to be. Just give him the time."

Tony left him on the deck.

**x**

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

It took Gray a moment to respond, like his mind had been elsewhere.

Was he worried that he had torched his bridge with Gibbs?

Gibbs had been angry, no doubt about that.

And Tony had been worried about Gibbs being angry. There had been a lot of tension in the atmosphere.

She couldn't tell if Gray was worried, though, much less about what. Not any more now than on the day she met him.

"I smell coffee," he said.

Ziva nodded, remembering the cups of it he'd consumed back at the ghost base. "Of course. Where there is Gibbs, there is coffee."

She made the tea in the microwave and set the two mugs down on the kitchen table when she was done, along with what remained of a carton of milk.

Gray dumped the last of that into his mug, wrapped one hand around the warm cup and rested his head on the other. He looked tired, she decided.

"I thought the operation today was well-handled," Ziva said. "Even though it was unfortunate that it was necessary. Thank you for calling me - it is good that we were there. The photos have already proven to be useful."

Gray considered the cracked glaze on the white cup. It had an old-fashioned blue sailboat on it, and the name of a sailing school in New Hampshire.

The silence was very strange now, since Gibbs and her partner had excused themselves so awkwardly. Ziva was continually thankful that she did not have their tempers.

"Tony and Gibbs are . . . upset that the situation put you in danger. Angry that there was nothing they could do about it. But they are also impressed by how prepared you were, and how well it was handled." Ziva paused. "It may take them some time to remember to say that, however."

Gray shifted. Looked at her piercingly. "Gibbs pays his debts whether he's angry or not."

"Yes," she said evenly. "He will always do his best to protect you."

Gray nodded. Not as if he were reassured, really. More like that was the correct answer.

"Cop said Tony's pissed she didn't tell him the plan up front."

He was always gathering intel, she thought. Checking the team for cracks. It was in the nature of a leader.

"Tony has already gotten over that. But he would also protect you whether or not he was angry."

"You're not pissed she didn't want you to call Gibbs?"

"We understand your reasoning. That goes a long way."

Gray sipped his coffee and fell silent. He was done.

Her turn to probe.

"You didn't want us to call Gibbs in order to compartmentalize information," Ziva said slowly. "In the uncertainty of the first few hours. To contain the leak, if possible, and to preserve this as a separate place, perhaps a safe one. We had the same policy at Mossad, to compartmentalize. A sensible precaution."

Gray just looked at her.

He never gave anything away, of course. Good instincts.

And effective training.

Ziva swirled her cup of tea, cool now, and took a sip. Pushed on.

"Is that where you learned the theory, also? A Mossad instructor?"

Gray's strange clear eyes showed nothing.

"Common sense, isn't it?" he said eventually.

"It goes against instinct for most people," she noted. Ziva met his gaze then, and held it for what felt like a long time. Waiting for him to answer, really answer, if he would.

"An instructor like Ori, you mean?"

Ziva stilled, cold even at the mention of that woman's name, and then nodded.

"She was in the camp a few months, one summer. They brought her in to assist their interrogators. To train them."

Ziva's voice was scratchy. She cleared her throat. "And you?"

"No. I met her. Watched. It was the people she trained I learned from."

Was that any better?

No.

"You are very good," she said idly. "I would not have known, except that I heard you say her name. When you were – when you had that fever, and you were ill."

Gray was silent.

"You said her name when the medical staff held you down . . . The things you watched her do must have been frightening."

Ori had not actually been that extreme when she was Ziva's commanding officer, even if her orders had been dangerous. But then, working for Mossad probably did not develop exactly the same skill set that a cartel would.

He didn't respond at all.

Ziva turned back to watching her cup, specks of loose tea dancing senselessly through the pale liquid.

She would apologize to him, to this boy. Say she was sorry that she had known what that woman was, what she was capable of, and yet let her walk out into the world. To continue on her terrible path.

Apologies did not absolve wrongdoing. But it was a step on the road to reconciliation, wasn't it? And Ziva needed to reconcile this, for her own sanity.

"I am sorry that I did not stop her when I had the chance to. I could have spared you that. I should have."

He was quiet. Not looking at his coffee, or the table, or out the window. He stared at her.

And then.

"She's dead, you know."

Ziva jerked, slopping tea on the table. "No. I - how do you know that?"

"Kort killed her. Or maybe it was one of his people . . ." Gray broke off, as if trying to remember. "Not sure. She's gone though." He smiled a little. "Kicked it."

Ziva stared back at him, and felt nothing. Empty of anything except some vague relief that such a woman was no more.

"Good," she said finally.

Gray nodded. They were quiet for awhile. Peaceful.

"I've killed more kids than you."

Ziva looked up sharply. "What?"

He watched her for a long moment, empty eyes like mirrors.

And then he stood. "I'm going to check on the ones downstairs."

He slipped down into the basement, to the other children there.

**x**

When Gibbs walked in he found Tony and Ziva at the table, a mug of milky coffee between them.

"How long do we think until Kort comes back?" Tony asked.

Gibbs shook his head. Poured himself a fresh mug of black and looked at his watch. It was one in the morning.

He was about to tell his agents to go out and relieve Cassie when Gray reappeared from the basement and moved swiftly out the backdoor. But something followed him up the stairs. A soft high pitched voice that grew into noises of distress.

Crying.

All three of them stood up at once. And then eyed each other. Probably not good for three strangers to go down there, not if the goal was to soothe a nightmare.

Ziva informed them that she would go, and was almost to the steps when Cassie darted around her.

"I have this," she said. And closed the door in Ziva's face.

They stared at it. And then Tony tugged at her sleeve. "C'mon," he said, and led her outside.

The two of them sent Gray in a moment later. He looked at the basement door and headed in the opposite direction - toward the couch.

"You want this?" Gibbs gestured at the coffee. But when Gray reached out for it Gibbs slid it away. "I'll heat it up."

He carried two mugs into the living room a minute later and set one down in front of the kid.

A good amount of time had passed before Gibbs chuckled softly to himself, and Gray looked up.

Gibbs shook his head. "Thought of a nice neutral question to ask, but I think I already know the answer."

Gray turned the mug resting on his thigh. "Me too."

"What's yours?"

"How'd you get him to tell you his name is Alex."

Gibbs leaned back in his chair. "And the answer?"

"Want to say you threatened to blow off his other arm. But I can't picture it."

"Just asked him, actually."

Gray shook his head. "Figures," he said softly.

"That how he lost his arm? Got blown off?" Grenade, maybe. Or a mine, triggered close.

"Is that your nice neutral question?"

Gibbs smiled. "No."

Gray gestured expansively. An invitation.

"I was gonna ask why you call him Truck."

"So what's the answer."

"That I don't want to know."

Gray didn't get it.

"That was the answer with Cop," Gibbs reminded him.

The kid considered his coffee again. "For awhile Tomas was the only one tall enough to reach the pedals. He's always been unusually large. And he likes to drive."

"Was he driving Cassie's SUV today?"

A nod.

"Heard he was pretty good."

"He's the best."

Gray said it completely naturally, as if it was obvious. _He's the best._

The same way Gibbs thought of Abby in the lab, or McGee behind a computer.

Gray, Cass, now Tomas. It wasn't just their skills - it was the aptitude. It wasn't normal. Gibbs wondered if they had been screened, or recruited somehow, and if so by whom.

Gray looked at him again, and Gibbs could tell he knew what he was thinking. More questions. None of them neutral.

Well, nothing ventured. "So what's O'Donnell after, exactly?"

Gray set his coffee on the table next to him and slouched back into the couch. He was either steeling himself or taking a nap.

Give him time, Dinozzo said. You don't know what it means that he trusts you at all.

Patience. Right.

Gibbs waited.

"What's with the coffin?"

Bargaining again? Fine with him.

"It's for a friend."

Gray fixed him with a steady look.

It was the same look Ziva gave to rednecks and effeminate men. Trying to be open-minded. Maybe figure things out. And failing in the face of something so bizarre.

"You got him on ice or something?"

"He's not dead yet."

The look turned speculative. Like he was wondering if Gibbs had Mike tied up in the attic.

"He's sick," he clarified. "Doesn't have long."

The stare stayed on him for awhile, unreadable now.

Gray's eyes wandered away before he spoke again, but he didn't answer the question Gibbs had asked. He went back to one Dinozzo had never had answered. "Cop said to tell you - she doesn't really know if he's her father."

Hell.

"She doesn't like to think about it," Gray added indifferently.

A cool undercurrent of warning there._ Don't bring it up again._

Gladly, as long as it didn't get in the way of keeping her safe.

"Can she ask her mother?"

Gray tilted his head, considered the ceiling. "Her mom's the one said it's possible."

A pause.

Gibbs had the distinct feeling that Gray was hovering. He wasn't so precisely still, like he usually was.

There were thoughts in there, thinking about coming out.

_You have to give him time._

Gibbs watched his coffee go cold.

"You know what's the worst strike against her?"

Gibbs waited.

"Cop is smart."

" . . . Yeah?"

"Really smart. Like hardly anybody else. Diablo's the same."

Gibbs rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling restless. He wanted to deny that, the reasoning and the likelihood of it.

The thing was . . . she really was brilliant. It was distinctive. The sort of trait that would be noticeable in a parent, and passed down to a child. Sure as Kels had looked at him with his own blue eyes.

He needed to say something.

"Even if O'Donnell is her biological father," Gibbs said steadily, "it doesn't change who she is."

"Your Daddy must've been a nice guy."

Gray didn't expect him to respond.

Maybe that's why Gibbs did. "He's . . . a good man."

Mild surprise.

Because Gibbs was ancient, and his dad was still alive? Or because he didn't think his father was Nice Guy of the Year material? He didn't know why that would be surprising to anyone, though. Gibbs was hardly racking up the Nice Guy prizes either.

Gray was still, just sitting there.

"We argued a lot, when I was a kid," Gibbs offered casually. The more information he gave, the more he tended to get. "Never really got back on track."

Stillness, even deeper now. And then Gray laughed.

"What'd I say?" Gibbs said quietly. Pretending he hadn't just compared Jackson Gibbs to a man known for good reason as Devil.

Gray waved a lazy hand, a_ nothing_.

Gibbs waited.

Waited . . .

. . . waited.

"There was this kid, at the camp. Liked to argue. Be a smart ass. Like you, probably."

Gibbs' lips quirked. He'd been mouthy when he was a kid, no denying that. And his willful ignorance now was pretty transparent. But Gray was talking anyway, talking about O'Donnell, so Gibbs didn't much care.

"This kid . . ." Gray's voice was considering, distant. "He wasn't good at anything. Couldn't hit a target, couldn't run two miles."

Wherever he was, Gray had gotten lost there. He fell silent.

A smart ass? Was he talking about Diego?

"He was funny?" Gibbs said slowly.

"Don't know. Kid said something to Diablo once." A puzzled frown. Like saying something to O'Donnell was hard to fathom. "Think he talked when he was nervous."

Hesitation, just for a moment, and Gibbs watched him closely. He got the feeling Gray was editing something out.

"What happened?" Gibbs asked softly.

A sideways glance, and Gray shrugged. "Normally he likes them to live. But Diablo was feeling good that day, I guess. When he was done he pulled the kid over to this tool shed. Told him to wait and went in. Kid was all fucked up, but he still just stood there, waiting for him. Diablo's good like that." A pause. Letting Gibbs absorb the scene. "When he came out he pushed him up against the shed, and he nailed him to the wall." Gray glanced at Gibbs again. Smiled a little, chillingly, and gestured with his hand, opening a palm. "Actual nails."

McGee's photos were fresh in his mind's eye, and Gray was deliberately painting a picture. Gibbs pictured it all too easily.

But Gray wasn't done.

"Diablo waited, you know, for a crowd. And then he cut out his tongue. No more smart ass remarks. No more smart ass."

Gray was trained in manipulation, in interrogation, and he was good at it. He knew how to snag you, how to make you feel what he wanted you to feel, when he bothered to do it. Gibbs knew that. But it didn't mean he was immune to it. He had no doubt the story was true, the parts that were said, and what went unsaid. He could see it all. Could hear it. He kept a straight face, aware of Gray watching him. But in his own mind he recoiled.

"Funny though," Gray continued idly. "Kid turned out to be tougher than he looked. When we pulled him down he wasn't even dead yet." Gray cocked an eyebrow at him, picked up his coffee and took a sip. "That was the surprising part."

_Daddy must have been a nice guy._

And the message was clear. If Diablo did that to some random kid, what would he do -

"We won't let him get to Cassie," Gibbs said, grim determination coloring the words. "But she needs to be careful. If he can find her and also prove that she's his daughter it may briefly give him some leverage."

O'Donnell could get close to her, if he could find her. If he was really determined, and depending on how deep he was in at the FBI. He could make an accusation of a kidnapping, maybe, have her taken into custody - that's how Gibbs would work it. Then DNA. Parental rights, federal protection. It wouldn't hold up for long, but it wouldn't need to. It could give him enough room to grab her and run.

Except Gibbs had told her that wouldn't happen.

A little premature, given he didn't even know where she was right now.

He reminded himself that she'd been carrying the last time he saw her. And sticking close to a whole lot of other people doing the same.

"She told me that he's never hurt her," he probed. Did O'Donnell have a special interest in her? Or was her protection all down to Gray's deal, like she thought?

Gray nodded.

"Those scars she has - ?"

"That wasn't Diablo, not his style. Too messy."

Silence, while Gibbs pondered that. Messy. But not O'Donnell -

"Anyway," Gray volunteered after a moment, and Gibbs narrowed his eyes, wondering instantly whose _style_ they were, "he was just fucking with her today. He doesn't care about her one way or the other. They're not after Cop."

But O'Donnell was after something.

And something had changed for Gray. He was offering Gibbs information, some anyway, about O'Donnell especially. Maybe because Diablo showing up had scared him. Maybe because what Gibbs said about protecting him had finally sunk in.

His gaze sharpened on Gray's profile.

_We weren't carrying anything they really want . . ._

_. . . I would so like to see Daniel and Sean again._

"Cassie told my agents that her SUV was the least vulnerable car."

Gray swirled his coffee steadily, so that it came just up to the lip of the cup but didn't spill over.

He was ignoring Gibbs. Or, putting an optimistic spin on it, waiting for him to go on.

"That's why her car was the one to stop," Gibbs said.

A nod, maybe.

"She meant that Sean and Daniel weren't in her car. Right?"

Because they were what the cartel wanted. Would fight for. Maybe even _forgive_ for.

Another slow nod.

"They're safe?"

Gibbs waited. He was pretty sure, but -

"My father's name was Daniel," Gray finally said. "He called me the same. They all did. High up."

High up in the cartel.

Damn but he'd been right.

"Your father was Daniel Conlon?"

"Yeah."

"And Sean?"

" . . . He's downstairs."

There was only one boy besides Alex downstairs. The one who was about eight, who'd been there from the beginning. Gibbs thought back to him. Thick shaggy hair, almost hiding big, dark liquid eyes. Delicate build. Shy. He stuck close to one of the girls down there, one with pale skin and hazel eyes about the same age. Last time Gibbs had seen them they were collapsed together on the cot, sleeping off the huge container of eggdrop soup and pile of wontons they'd shared for dinner.

"Why do they want you?"

Gray smiled, in a way. "They don't. Not alive, anyway."

But they hadn't outright attacked. There'd been a veiled warning, threat and bribary. No violence.

They wanted somebody alive.

"They want Sean."

A calm nod.

"And you don't want to give him to them?"

"He doesn't want to go back," Gray said. Suddenly, absolutely still.

Gibbs looked at the kid in front of him. Really looked. At the fine-boned hands cradling the heavy mug. The thin curve of his shoulders when he leaned forward, the shallow dip of the ear where the lobe met his neck. Almost delicate.

He studied the liquid-gray eyes. They were fixed on the basement door.

"He's your brother," Gibbs guessed.

Gray answered easily, unsurprised. But his posture radiated dread. "Half-way there, Gibbs."

A half-brother? And the reluctance he wasn't bothering to hide - Gibbs was closing in on it, finally, after all this time.

And Gray was going to let him.

Gray got the odd coloring of his eyes from his father, who was dead. Their mother was missing. But someone in that cartel wanted Sean . . .

"Who's his father?"

Nothing. Gray didn't look like he'd even heard him.

Gibbs held onto his patience with both hands.

He was close. Gray was losing the color in his face, not that Gibbs cared. He would pick the kid up and shake the answers out of him if he thought it would get him anywhere. But that wasn't the way forward here.

If he was named for Daniel Conlon . . . he was never going to call this boy Daniel. Gray it was.

"Gray," Gibbs kept it very quiet, and controlled, determined to coax Gray out onto the ice inch by inch. "Listen to me. We'll be in a better position to - "

"Londono."

He waited. But Gray didn't say anything else.

Not Londono's lieutenant. Not Londono's friend.

Londono.

Gibbs leaned forward to set his coffee on the table. And - just briefly - rested his head in his hands.

" . . . Roberto Londono?"

"Yeah."

"The head of the cartel."

"Only one I know."

" . . . He wants his son back," Gibbs said slowly.

"Time to build the dynasty." Very dry.

Was that a joke?

The kid gets funny.

Gibbs sat back, let his head rest on the chair's cushions. The tendons in his neck were screaming.

Roberto Londono's son was in his basement. And Londono wanted him back.

They needed a safe house, definitely. One in Switzerland. And an army of guards. Though that would all be useless if he couldn't keep Gray from bolting.

Roberto Londono. Unbelievable.

"Well," Gibbs sighed, "You do know how to pick them, kid."

"Same to you," Gray said, and tipped up the mug to finish his lukewarm coffee. "But I think you mean my mother knows how to pick them."


	53. Black and White All Over

**Chapter 53: Black and White All Over**

Gibbs was habitually still, when he was thinking. But when other people were totally motionless it usually meant they were watchful, or wary. Or scared.

He let ten minutes pass, and the kid didn't so much as breathe.

Gibbs nodded once, eyes landing on the rifle still leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. "I told you I would protect you," he said. "You're not going to scare me off. I don't care who you have in my basement." He shifted to look at the kid again. Gray's eyes were locked on Gibbs. Unreadable. Assessing.

Who could blame him? If Gibbs had any sense at all he'd turn this over to the higher powers, whoever that would be in this case. State Department? Or the Colombian embassy, maybe, though there were pretty clear drawbacks to that idea. He'd be surprised if Londono didn't have some kind of pull there.

No wonder Kort had wanted to get his affairs in order. Gibbs would have to sit down with the team, let them know what they were dealing with. Speaking of -

"But if you keep pulling guns on my team," he said calmly, "you're going to piss them off. We're on your side. Stop testing it."

Gray might have relaxed a little. Reassured by the posturing? Or just backed into a corner - cards on the table, forced to trust the few he'd shown them to.

When the phone rang Gibbs picked it up almost absently.

"Jethro." It was Fornell. "Most of Dargas' unit is accounted for. Got a few scheduled for witness protection, it'll take some time to go up the chain, get the authorization for their whereabouts. There's no unusual surveillance on record for you or your team."

Silence.

"Good," Gibbs said. His eyes drifted toward Gray's.

"Yeah?" Fornell came through impatiently. "What the hell is going on, Gibbs?"

"Thanks, Tobias. I owe you one. Keep an eye on your people, alright?"

"You owe me - "

Gibbs hung up.

"Looks like O'Donnell kept it quiet," he said levelly. "Small, low-key until today."

Gray didn't say anything.

"I can arrange a safe house for you. We'll bring in guards who are - "

"We don't need your protection," Gray said.

Gibbs sat forward and chose his words carefully. Reason would work better than yelling or intimidation, if anything would work at all. "You're an informant for an NCIS investigation. You're entitled to our help."

"Am I?" Gray asked casually.

"Yes."

Gray left off Gibbs to consider the far wall. "An informant in an investigation," he said finally. "So you're not incompetent, exactly." He smiled bitterly. "But you have been busy. Doing other things."

Gibbs nodded slowly. Bullshitting was not an option here. "We knew where he was, in South Africa. For brief periods. Knew that he'd flown back to Colombia a few months ago. We had him under surveillance there. Not consistently, but a few times."

"You thought you would use him," Gray said. His tone was old as dust, and colorless. "Let him lead you to others in the cartel."

Gibbs let his silence speak for him.

Gray looked at him unnervingly for a few moments. The pale eyes were like a brand, peeling back layers of skin. When the kid spoke again his voice was flat, and Gibbs couldn't really tell what was behind the words. But it sounded like he was quoting someone else, or had said them many times before.

"It's alright. Everyone has their weaknesses. You've got fewer than most."

"Don't follow," Gibbs said cooly.

"You're arrogant. You think you can play with Diablo and keep yourselves safe. That you can take from him, and he won't take back?" Gray's face was expressionless. Empty. "You're wrong."

"My people are safe," Gibbs said. Still quiet, reasonable. The kid was smart and careful, and had more experience than he should, Gibbs would grant him that. But Gibbs hadn't exactly been born yesterday. "And if you let us, we can protect you, too."

"Protection isn't what I need you for."

Right. Kort and Gibbs, they played offense. Gibbs was supposed to help Kort bring the cartel down - at least the part that was after Gray and his family.

And Gibbs would. He'd made that vow months ago, at a base hidden in a jungle, watching a kid trying to dig himself out of a war.

"I told you that I would bring them down," he said. "And I will. But not letting us help you - that's a mistake." Gibbs tilted his head. "It's your weakness, Gray. And Kort's. Don't take on his bad habits."

There was a car outside, the low hum of a serious engine. The pop of a car door closing in the driveway.

Gray shook his head. "I'm not. We brought you in. I'm telling you how you can help. Using your resources to guard us would just be a waste, one you can't afford with a team as small as yours. Concentrate on the cartel."

"Pretty confident," Gibbs sighed, and tapped the lip of his coffee thoughtfully. "Sure arrogance isn't your thing? Be easy to pick it up from the CIA . . . or from O'Donnell."

The kid grinned, cool. Acknowledging the hit, and the question there. But not shaken by it. Gibbs couldn't believe how immune he seemed to be. As if O'Donnell had never touched him.

"You know arrogance isn't Diablo's soft spot," Gray said. "I know how smart you are, Gibbs. And I know what you know."

"So what is his weakness, then?"

Gray looked back at him as if he was waiting for the answer, too.

"Sex? Or insanity?" Gibbs pressed quietly. "Is that what you exploited to make a deal with him, Gray?"

Gray narrowed his eyes, and pondered the man across from him as if they were sitting in a cafe, having a philosophical discussion. "I don't know. Do you think ambition is insane?"

Gibbs drew his pistol.

Ambition? So O'Donnell thought he could use Gray, somehow. Maybe use his connection to Sean. And Gray had cooperated?

"Anything can be a weakness, if you approach it the right way," Gibbs said levelly. From the corner of his eye he got the impression the kid already knew how very true that was.

And Gray wasn't even close to budging on the safe house.

The backdoor to his house opened. Gibbs raised his gun and switched to a lighthearted tone, speaking clearly enough to be heard in the next room. "So what's Kort's weakness, do you think? Since we're sharing."

The kid smiled oddly, once again, and Gibbs' senses perked up. This was not the neutral question he thought it was.

"Fear," Gray said finally, softly. "Same as mine."

Gibbs stared at him.

"The kind that you don't seem to have anymore," Gray elaborated.

Gibbs turned away again, bracing the pistol in his hands and eyeing the back hall. Gray stood up as Kort walked in.

The CIA agent nodded to the boy's look. "It's good."

Damn.

"Gray," Gibbs said. "Why not let them sleep here? I can bring down an air mattress, some sleeping bags. You can move to the new location in the morning." In the morning there would be more traffic, and with a good driver behind the wheel, traffic would make trailing them harder.

Gray crossed to the basement door and, oddly, knocked. He discussed it for about ten seconds with Cassie and then nodded back at the agents watching from the living room. Gibbs dug out an air mattress, and Gray shut the basement door behind them.

Gibbs called in two guards from NCIS that he trusted and instructed McGee and Abby to break for the night.

Gray was right, in one respect at least. His team was small, and couldn't provide a 24-hour guard if they were also going to pursue the cartel. Not unless they gave up sleep entirely.

The backup guards reached his place in less than twenty.

"Ziva, Dinozzo. Go home and get some shuteye." It was 0200. "Be at your desks by 0930."

They nodded and left, subdued. To be taunted by the enemy, and then let him slip away - it would wreck havoc on their morale.

Finally all of the arrangements had been made, the new guard patrolling, his agents and the kids taken care of. Gibbs and Kort were the only ones left. Standing like duelers across from one another in his living room.

"We need to move now. Find him and take him out."

Kort shook his head.

Gibbs went on, annoyed. "If O'Donnell brings our connection to Gray and Sean back to the cartel the operation will be blown."

"And we'll tip our hand if we hunt him too obviously," Kort countered. "We should increase our surveillance and try to head O'Donnell off if he approaches Londono. They won't risk electronic or telephone communication for this. But we can't even be sure that Diablo will pass the information on. He's playing his own game now, he may keep it to himself. Besides," Kort pointed out, "Hanlan is coming in tomorrow and we'll be able to review the surveillance that we do have with him and with Gray. We need to have good information on all of them before we move."

Gibbs stretched and paced into the kitchen, to the coffee machine, just to burn energy. He stared at it for a moment, and finally turned it off.

Wait to strike until you have good intelligence. That was the smart way to go, in theory. But if you waited for perfect intel while your enemy burned your house down around you, you'd waited too long.

And there was a reason that Gibbs never made deals, never stooped to relying on criminals who had decided to rat out their friends. You couldn't trust them, by definition. Even by dirtbag standards they were scum.

Not that Gibbs could claim the high ground on that score anymore. AK had been roped in and offered a deal, and now Hanlan from South Africa, and even O'Donnell, in a way. Gibbs and Kort had followed his movements instead of closing in and taking care of the son of a bitch. They'd justified it because they wanted the intel that following O'Donnell could give them.

All his team's intelligence, all their experience hadn't saved them from that temptation. Couldn't erase the fact that the kids' safety, in the end, had been an acceptable sacrifice. Would Gibbs have let O'Donnell walk if Dinozzo had ever been under that man's power? If Ziva had?

No. He would have hunted him down and destroyed O'Donnell like the rabid dog he was.

That was why Gray held a rifle on Tim tonight. Not to make a threat, or because he was rattled. It was clear communication, just like the kid said. Another heart-to-heart.

You put mine in danger, when you traded O'Donnell away.

How do you like it.

He felt the frustration, the _wrongness_, build like a wall in his chest.

"The longer we wait the higher the risk, and no guarantee of anything to show for it. Meanwhile that lunatic is out on the streets. These idiots at the FBI were trying to use O'Donnell the same way you're trying to use Hanlan. This is how scum gets protection! They slip through the cracks when we _let_ them – "

"That's absurd, there's no comparison," Kort broke in impatiently. "The FBI was never in control, they were played from the beginning. O'Donnell is about to skip the country if he hasn't already. The kids will be safe from him then, and we've already learned plenty from that man's movements. He's too valuable to simply eliminate. As for Hanlan, he's been in our custody for months. He's not a threat."

" . . . Yeah." Gibbs had walked to the window and spoken to the cool glass there. Years of bitterness and disillusionment were packed into that one word, folded into it, layer by layer.

Kort studied him, wondering how serious this was. Was it normal reluctance, a brief hesitation? Or was the man actually about to pull out? He was relying on Gibbs to come through with the holding space for Hanlan and the two lackeys. The CIA wouldn't allow one of its agents to organize an operation against the cartel under its nose, so he needed NCIS to help him coordinate the surveillance as well. Now Gibbs wanted to back out?

Was he bluffing?

Did Gibbs bluff?

And if the answer was no . . . was it even possible to talk the man out of an idea once he'd seized on it?

Probably not. He was all noble, incorruptible principle after all. Gibbs operated in a world of black and white. It was a foreign country, one Kort had never known. And it was all so fragile. Good things were too hard to defend, too easily corrupted and lost.

But Kort knew for a fact that Gibbs had watched it all collapse before. More than once. Had watched that world burn, and burned with it, only to build it back up again. Like some pigheaded, ridiculous phoenix.

It was the sort of thing Kort could respect, basically, from afar. But he had no actual patience with it, no map for navigating it. He knew nothing and no one purely right or wrong, and it was a distinction that no longer had any meaning for him. There was only winning the fight ahead of them or losing it.

Kort spoke as forcefully as he dared. "We _need_ Hanlan. And he won't be able to lead us down the garden path the way Diablo did the FBI. That's why we have Gray to corroborate. Did you think I was bringing him in just to watch the show? He'll know if anything is too far off – "

"Yeah, I got it." Gibbs was yelling now, or close to it. "The dirtbag gets a nice retirement package from the CIA, right? And the kids – " If he kept going he was going to really scream. He threw a hand into the air instead, and turned away. " - I got it."

Kort took a breath. The man in front of him was all over the place, spooked from the chaos that had erupted around them today. Startled, probably, into seeing ghosts.

So Kort tried to talk him down rationally. The way he would want someone to reassure him, as best as he could tell, if he ever suffered from something like a moral crisis.

"Hanlan and his information will help us to keep everyone safe in the long run. O'Donnell isn't the same thing, he wasn't telling the truth, or anything near it. Neither one of them is going to get a nice 'retirement' or anything like it. Look, this isn't your family, Gibbs. Hernandez wouldn't have slipped through either, in the long run we'd have got him."

Quiet. Gibbs stared at the wall.

Ignoring him.

"Gibbs."

" . . . Get out of my house."

Kort realized, belatedly as usual, that he'd gone too far.

He held up a hand. "Don't be stu– "

Somehow he managed to swallow the insult before it made its way past his teeth. "Look. We agree on this, alright? I wouldn't use O'Donnell any more than you would. The FBI doesn't know what its doing. But that doesn't mean that hunting him down now is the smart move."

Gibbs laughed bitterly, quietly. This from a man who defended scum like Hernandez, and offered deals to men who worked for _El Diablo_.

"You're a liar, Kort, and a bad one. You telling me if O'Donnell walked in here right now offering information you wouldn't give him a deal? You're always looking for another score, it's a game to you."

After what Gray had just revealed about Kort, had hinted . . . it was all even more disgusting than it would normally be.

"You told me yourself you would flip him, flip _the devil_, that's what you said, right? Because you're _just that good_." Gibbs' voice was cool, floating on a weird, terrible calm. Terrible because somewhere in it, lurking in its corners, there was rage that couldn't possibly be calm. "And I told you to get out of my house."

Kort felt bizarrely helpless. Letting O'Donnell go was necessary. Hanlan was _essential_. And Gibbs was essential too.

He watched as the other man sat on the couch, ignoring him.

Stay cool, try again. Just lay it out reasonably.

"I was spoiling for a fight when I said that. And I got one, if you recall? I wouldn't actually deal with O'Donnell." Kort didn't bother to swear he wouldn't, or to promise, or any of that. Gibbs already thought he was a liar, the man always had. Swearing wouldn't help him. "Beyond everything he's done, O'Donnell's too unpredictable. He's mad, literally insane. It would be useless to even try to deal with him."

Gibbs wouldn't look at him. But he did speak, after a moment, his tone perfectly ordinary. Like nothing here even merited his anger. "So, no madmen, but straight-up evil is alright, that it?" A pause, and then casually, "You make me sick."

Kort looked away. "It's necessary. I don't know what you want me to say."

" . . . I want you to get out of my house."

After a minute Kort walked from the kitchen to the front door.

It wasn't until his hand was on the knob that Gibbs spoke, tone curious, almost idle. Wrapping up loose ends?

"Why did you say I was good for him, Kort?"

All the control was back. The man had regained his black and white, apparently. Kort could only hope it wouldn't cost them everything. He stared at the door for a few seconds, and considered just walking through it, walking away. The disappearing act had always been a real talent of his, before.

But not anymore.

Instead he leaned forward a little, until his head was almost to the wood, and fought the urge to laugh. Gibbs definitely wouldn't like that.

But really. How the hell had he gotten here?

Gray, that was how. Manipulative little bastard. And Gibbs, too. And his own . . . his . . . choices.

How could the man ask that, anyway? Wasn't someone like Gibbs good for everyone, as long as they fit into his world? Didn't he protect them, and patch up the wounded without even trying? Did he think it was normal, the devotion he got from his agents?

"If you don't want me to protect him from people like that – "

"We can't protect them, Gibbs," Kort said roughly. "Don't fool yourself. I want you to help them _survive_. And eventually . . ."

Kort was still staring out the window set into the door, his face so close to it his voice was softened, and Gibbs lifted his head to look at him. "Eventually, when it's over, I want them to forget all this. To be kids. The way it should have been," he finished calmly.

The hell? And the man told Gibbs not to fool himself?

"That's not possible."

"Of course it is."

Gibbs grunted, dismissive, and turned his face away. "You forgot your childhood. Didn't have any affect on you, huh?"

"You know it did. I never got out of the shit. But some people do, don't they. They come back from it . . . your specialty, if I'm not mistaken," Kort said flatly. "God, look at your team, man."

Because Gibbs didn't just build that cozy, simple world around himself, did he? He pulled his people into its embrace.

Gibbs was incredulous again. "You're not serious."

Kort opened the door. The cold air felt good. "I told you that I would do the dirty work, and if you can't stomach it I will. Forget about Hanlan, if that's what you want. I'll handle the interviews, I'll get the intel we need to go down there and assassinate all the bad men. Clean kills. And when it's over you can turn it into a bedtime story for Gray, and for Sean. For the boys they'll be."

Kort slipped away, the door closing behind him with a whisper, Gibbs staring after him.

Gray turned and went silently back to the basement.

**x**

"McGee!"

"Boss?"

"Where is your team?"

He said _your team_ the way Tim's mother used to say _your father _when she'd had it.

McGee looked up cautiously, scanning for signs of a fistfight. It was after noon, and Gibbs' first appearance of the day. The boss was rooting through his desk for something, not paying any attention to Tim.

Gibbs didn't look like he'd been in a fight. But the last time anyone had seen him he'd been with Kort. And whatever had gone down in the half-day since, Gibbs was definitely pissed about it.

All of the kids were now in mysterious locations that the team didn't know about, and the last of them had apparently left for one of those locations early in the morning from Gibbs' house. The boss had spent the morning coordinating something with Kort and Fornell, though he hadn't exactly been chatty when he'd called in at 0931 to give them instructions.

But it made sense that Gibbs would try to track down those missing FBI agents. McGee and Abby hadn't had any luck at all finding O'Donnell.

"Ziva and Tony left for the airfield twenty minutes ago," McGee said.

Gibbs' team had spent the morning looking over maps and deciding routes, putting all of their considerable experience into keeping three criminals from South Africa safe.

The ironies of the job.

Gibbs grunted irritably and stood up, walking quickly over to McGee's desk. He set a thumb drive down next to Tim's computer as he blew by. "Hard copies of everything on that McGee. You know the drill."

Tim nodded. No letting the data, in any form, out of his sight. That meant no getting an intern to handle the printing, and no electronic copies saved anywhere, not even in a print job cache. No one but Gibbs' team and the director were to know this surveillance existed, much less lay eyes on it.

The boss disappeared and McGee sighed as he stood, heading for the copy room. Earlier Gibbs said he thought there would be at least fifteen hundred photos, plus documents.

Assuming the printer was working well today it would take about ten seconds to spit out each high-res color image. That made fifteen thousand seconds for the photos alone. Two hundred and fifty minutes. Just over four hours of copy room time.

McGee detoured toward the break room, and coffee.

**x**

Ziva began walking the perimeter of the airfield at 2100. She settled into position on a dark hanger roof at 0030.

Kort's gleaming SUV showed up at 0110, and the green and white lights of the transport flight winked out of the black horizon seven minutes later. The wind was cold and steady, fifteen knots worth of force pushing the roiling clouds above to the north and west. She adjusted the sights of her rifle accordingly.

The sky had thrown sleet down at her for a solid forty-five minutes. Puddles of water now played with the runway lights below, reflecting and bending them, creating the illusion of movement where there was none.

She scanned the runway thoroughly anyway.

Now the clouds were spitting something drier, harsher—fierce little ice crystals that stung her face and gathered on her eyelashes, refusing to melt. Ziva wiped the scope one last time as the plane roared down the runway and taxied to a stop.

She was two hundred and nine yards from the end of the airstrip and the brightly lit hangar where Kort waited, standing like a statue next to the passenger door of the car.

The targets disembarked quickly. Through the scope she could see the tiny, glittering missiles of ice landing on the first prisoner's soft brown hair. That was Hanlan. She abandoned him to sweep over the rooftops as he descended from the hatch. Ziva studied windows and doorways and the crevices between buildings, the pitch-black field with its rolling hill beyond the plane. All the vulnerable security points picked out on her first survey of the area hours ago.

Soft hair disappeared into the SUV, and she saw nothing more menacing than still shadows.

The second man had no hair at all. He was completely bald, pale pink skull shiny under the hangar lights. He hunched his shoulders against the wind as Kort's security team hustled him to the car.

Ziva swept it all again. The plane, the car, the windows and doorways. Most carefully of all the roofs to each compass point. There was nothing to see but dark machinery and ugly architecture.

The final man was bulky yet hard to see, her view of him blocked by an absolutely enormous guard. He was bundled into the car within seconds, followed by his hulking protector, and in an instant the SUV was speeding toward the gate. Her eyes ran up the fences on either side of the road, over the rooftops within a thousand yards in either direction, back to the plane, up ahead to the gate.

The motor of the car faded away and the night was silent again but for the scrape of wind over concrete. Still she followed the taillights with her scope.

When the SUV turned out of the gate, the headlights of a second car flared and began to move. Tony and McGee would follow Kort and the prisoners to the Navy Yard and escort the three men to cells.

Ziva stood, combing ice from her hair. She was going home, to sleep. No one had attacked on her watch. The transfer had been smooth. She had six hours before she was due back at work, unless Gibbs called them in earlier.

If she was lucky her team, the children they danced around, and the American Navy would manage to stay out of trouble for the duration of her nap.

**x**

Gibbs woke at 0530 and knew there would be no more sleep that night. The empty house was too quiet, even as a hard mix of rain and sleet beat against the living room window. It was a steady backdrop to the thousands of surveillance photos that seemed to pulse behind his eyes. McGee had emerged from the copy room with box after box of them.

When the blank faces of three men waiting for interrogation started to push the photos out, he rolled off the couch. It was absurdly early and he took his time getting ready, but was dressed and out the door inside forty minutes.

It was still dark and coming down in sheets when he came to a dead stop behind a long line of cars, red brake lights glowing, idling half a block from the Yard's west entrance. An accident up ahead, maybe. The rain was freezing, edging toward sleet, and the streets were laced with black ice.

The cars sat at a total standstill for long minutes. Gibbs tapped the steering wheel gently, frowning at his watch even as his phone began to buzz. It was damn early for a traffic jam, accident or not.

He knew as soon as he saw the Caller ID. It was Vance.

Gibbs swerved up onto the road's shoulder and gunned it toward the gate, flipping open the new cell McGee had set him up with the day before.

"Yeah."

"Gibbs. We've got a situation at the west gate."

"On my way."

Orange cones and a line of Marines in fatigues blocked the turnoff from the main road. They knew him on sight and tried to wave him through, but there were cars everywhere, nowhere to go. Gibbs reached over to the glovebox for his hat and left the Charger on the soggy shoulder, jogging the rest of the way to the scene through the downpour.

Twenty yards up, at the squat little guardhouse, a knot of silent figures stood staring at the gate. Gibbs pushed his way to the front and finally stopped.

There were six heads sitting there, set in a line across the road.

They looked pristine on the shining black asphalt, like waxy props from a horror movie. Empty eyes and gaping mouths staring back at the quiet crowd.

Vance was standing on his own, to the side, holding a black umbrella. He didn't even glance Gibbs' way when the agent came to stand beside him.

"Two guards on the gate are relieved every morning at 0600," the director said. "The relief found this. Their commander called me."

So a minimum of people knew. Judging by the cordon of men down at the turnoff Vance wanted to keep it that way. Explained why there wasn't already a media circus trying to catch a glimpse of the carnage.

"Where's the overnight shift?"

"Missing," Vance said shortly, and finally turned to the man standing next to him. "Find them. And identify those people."

Gibbs watched him walk away, and turned back to the scene.

Identify those people.

He was halfway there already.

Three of the victims, a woman and two men, he didn't know. But three he did.

He called Tony first and told him to get the team to the gate.

Abby would already be in her lab by the time evidence was ready to be processed, so he woke Ducky up next.

Then he dialed Fornell.

Kort was the last call, and the only one not to pick up. Gibbs left a message, telling him to get his ass back to the Navy Yard.

Dargas. Agent Fred. And the feisty CIA lady who'd called herself Courtney Trent, and claimed she worked for ICE. They were all dead, along with the three unidentified, their heads left like calling cards at the NCIS doorstep.

Gibbs walked in front of them, studying the wounds, eyeing the ground around them. He stopped at the end and squatted down to stare, more closely than he had before, at the unknown woman whose sightless eyes stared back at him.

A severed head was grotesque by nature, but her face was relatively serene. Long dark hair and clear dark eyes. Proud feminine features set in pale, unblemished skin, like the death mask of a mannequin.

She had been beautiful, once. She could have been Ziva's sister.


	54. To the Morgue

**Chapter 54: To the Morgue**

"My my." Ducky leaned forward to examine the base of the neck, slowly tipping it forward. "That is interesting."

Jethro hovered just over the ME's shoulder. "Got something, Duck?"

"See there, they've been mounted." Ducky pointed his penlight at the severed head, illuminating the base of it. It wasn't all arteries and the spine, like it should have been. Most of it was covered by a metal square.

"Mounted."

"Mm, to keep them standing upright, I should think. Whoever did this wanted the scene to look just right." Ducky left off examining the head to peer up at Gibbs. "Making a statement, perhaps?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said lowly. "Roger that."

"Mm." Ducky gave Jethro another once over, then looked about for his assistant. "Mr. Palmer, it's high time we get these people out of the rain." He stood, knees creaking, and muttered, "One gurney should do it."

**x**

Tim didn't remember every crime scene they worked, not clearly anyway. But a few did stand out. He remembered the worst ones - the ones that were tense, or too personal - in snapshots.

Spotlights around the gate had already been set up when he first arrived, throwing the scene into harsh light and shadow. He remembered how the light caught the pale morning mist, and the dark silhouettes of men in uniform, shifting restlessly as they watched the team work.

A close-up of Gibbs next, red-faced, yelling into his phone. Something about airports, and train and bus stations, the veins in his forehead throbbing. Tim didn't give the new cell phone clutched in Gibbs' hand good odds for a long life. The crowd of Marines was vague in the background. McGee had the impression they looked on approvingly.

And then the way the boss stopped mid-tirade to gesture McGee forward. Gibbs covered the mouthpiece of the cell and fiercely told him he wanted this scene kept quiet, no leaks. Next he wanted another pair of eyes on the security feed, wanted Tim to run the photos Gibbs had already taken down to Abby's lab, wanted all of the vics' pictures sent to Fornell and Kort for possible ID, wanted access to Dargas' and Agent Fred Arena's recent case files and Bureau activity, wanted a second interview of the relief watch, wanted, wanted, wanted.

In his memory, it isn't the words that stand out. It's Gibbs' voice, and the rain rolling down his face, and the familiar blue eyes. Gibbs was fierce, yes, but also calm. His voice was strong and his instructions were clear and confident, steady and sure, like the sun coming up in the morning.

Gibbs didn't ever really hesitate, just like the kid said. And McGee knew that there were times, deep down, when he clung to that. No matter what happened, Gibbs knew what to do. Or at least, what he was going to do. And even better for his youngest agent, he knew exactly what Tim should be doing, too.

McGee nodded and said yes boss, and ran off to do it.

He remembered seeing Ziva, talking intently to one of the guards. She was listening carefully to the Marine, her attention fixed on him.

Then her eyes drifting toward Tony, her partner. He was crouched in a puddle in front of one of the victims. McGee moved quickly past him, already thinking about the fastest way to get into the FBI's recent case files, and anything in them that might lead to O'Donnell's current whereabouts.

He hadn't really noticed what Dinozzo was doing at the time, he'd been too focused on the job. But later, when Tim tried to take a nap and all of the images came rushing back, it was there. Crystal clear, even through the dismal, foggy morning.

The picture of Tony was the last one. He was kneeling down in front of one of the victims, oblivious to the rain. Staring at a woman's severed head.

**x**

Four and a half hours had passed since Tony threw Kort's South African dirtbags into cells.

Not even five hours.

Now he had significantly less than the recommended dose of sleep, ice water in his shoes, and six heads at the entrance of the NCIS parking lot – at least three of them federal agents.

And that wasn't even the worst of it.

She did look a lot like Ziva. But the face was a little longer. And the hair was darker, finer. Tony could tell it was different even in the rain and bad light, with her hair plastered all over her forehead. The ends of it floated in the same puddle he was kneeling in, mixing with a slick, rainbow layer of gasoline.

Eventually Gibbs stopped shouting into his phone and came to stand next to him, and Tony rose to his feet.

The boss barely glanced at the woman's head before turning his focus on his second.

"Kort's not answering his cell. Don't suppose you have a way to contact the kid?"

Tony blinked at him, and let his gaze settle over Gibbs' shoulder. Thinking hard. "I always found him at his school, but Gray won't show his face there again until O'Donnell's history." He shook his head. "He was real careful, boss. We both were."

"Yeah," Gibbs said shortly. "IDs on the three unknown vics, Dinozzo. I want them."

Gibbs looked briefly at the woman's head again and stalked off. Pissed. Because somedays, all the careful in the world didn't matter a damn.

**x**

By 1030 the scene had been canvassed, sketched and photographed. The heads were down with Ducky, one long shiny table given over to each. The first layers of evidence rushed to Abby's lab hours ago.

Gibbs was standing in the elevator, letting Fornell scream at him.

His team was scouring surveillance footage and missing persons reports, and contacting the Marines' family members, explaining how they had died. In a training accident.

Gibbs had seen enough of what they had on tape to know that there was nothing obviously useful there. Four nondescript men in masks had taken out the two Marines, dragged them away, and placed the heads of the six victims across the road. The perpetrators' vehicle was a nondescript four-door with obscured plates. It was all over in under two minutes.

Gibbs had quarantined the rest of the Marines on base to keep a lid on information and interviewed the stone-faced morning watch right in the guard booth at the gate. They hadn't seen or heard anything suspicious on their approach. They hadn't touched anything, and they didn't recognize any of the heads. They didn't know what any of this was about, except that Corporal Barnes and Corporal Juares were good guys. Sharp. And they might not have expected anything to happen on the night watch at the Navy Yard, because the last time this posting saw action it was the War of 1812, but Barnes and Juares – they would've been ready for anything, all the same.

Except that they hadn't been ready, obviously. Not for this.

Fornell gradually lost steam.

Gibbs tuned back in when he heard him ask if they thought the missing Marines were taken alive.

Gibbs shook his head. "Blood trail washed away in the rain. On our security footage it looks like they both took three to the chest."

Fornell nodded, not surprised. "I've got a team at Dargas's house and another at Arena's. Nothing looks out of place at either. Dargas told his wife he was working the weekend, so she didn't think anything of him not making it home. Arena was single."

Tobias looked him over then, and Gibbs returned the stare.

They had a good working relationship, had become friends, even. But neither man was one to be pushed around. And Fornell already knew enough, really. Knew Gibbs had been sniffing out connections to a Colombian cartel for months. And there was that kid – the one who could pull Gibbs from his bed, and make him go toe-to-toe with Dargas' entire unit. Fornell knew the kid was caught up in this fight somehow, probably had been for a long time. He'd watched when his agents booked him after the Burnett incident, when they'd searched him for identifying marks. There were plenty.

And now two of the FBI's DC trafficking agents were dead, laid at Gibbs' doorstep.

"How did you know the conference and Dargas' team had been compromised in the first place? Tell me what this is about, Jethro." The _or I'll make this investigation a living hell for you_ remained unsaid, but was understood all the same.

Gibbs leaned back against the elevator wall, gripping the rail. He knew what he was going to do, but Cassie's advice on secrets sprang unbidden to his mind anyway.

We keep them for enemies.

Not that these were secrets, really. There was no reason but habit to keep this mess quiet, his own part in it at least - not from a friend.

He started with the assassination of three brothers in Colombia twenty years ago, and skipped forward to his kidnapping in Mexico last May.

When he was done, Gibbs raised his eyes from the floor of the elevator and met his old friend's gaze squarely. Wondering if this moment would mark the end of that friendship.

All of this - the danger to his team, the lost FBI Agents - was the fall-out from one murder. The one Gibbs had committed. Just like scores of bad guys he and Fornell had taken down in their careers, his one crime had spiraled unimaginably out of control. Gibbs killed Hernandez for the best of reasons, but in the end that was just his excuse. So far, the consequences didn't seem to care what his excuse was.

Fornell looked him over silently for a few seconds. "I have a gift for you, Gibbs," he said finally, and frowned as he flipped the elevator switch. "Actually, it's more like a loan."

He led Gibbs to one of the third floor conference rooms and opened the door to let him peer in at the familiar agent sitting there before shutting it again.

"Agent Neil Harris, if you didn't already know. Fred Arena's usual partner. You have twenty minutes, Gibbs. And this stays in the conference room, we clear?"

Gibbs scowled. "Do you even know what he did to the kid? When Gray was in his custody?"

"Yeah. Harris told me," Fornell said promptly, and held up a hand at Gibbs' disgusted reaction. "And I spoke to Agent David earier. She confirmed that what he said was accurate. He'll be punished for what he did as an FBI Agent, Jethro. By the FBI."

Gibbs studied Fornell, wondering what had raised the man's hackles. But Fornell wasn't giving anything away. "In the conference room for now," Gibbs growled, conceding. "But no guarantees after that."

If the agent sitting in that room had helped O'Donnell, knowing what he was, then Gibbs was going to drag him into interrogation and get a confession out of him whether the FBI fought him every step of the way or not.

Fornell opened the door again and followed him in. Gibbs sat down silently, expectantly, and Fornell settled beside him, gesturing for the agent across from them to start talking.

The bully who had interrogated Gray all those months ago was shellshocked. Fornell had shown him pictures of Dargas and Arena, as they'd been found at the gate, along with photos of the unknown vics. He didn't recognize anyone but his teammates.

But he did explain how O'Donnell wormed his way into the FBI unit.

Harris stared at Gibbs' shirt, seeming unable to meet his eyes. "When Angela went missing during that op, Dargas wouldn't let us into the field to help with the search. Said we had to stay in the building or go home. Fred was out of his mind. I got us assigned to interrogations. That's why we were questioning that junkie in the first place."

"Angela Monaco," Fornell filled in. "She was one of the three FBI agents from Dargas' unit who were killed by a gang in DC last fall. Your . . . informant eventually provided information that helped us to locate two of the bodies."

Gibbs said nothing. He remembered everything about that day.

"Go on, Harris." Fornell's voice was tight.

"Fred and Angela were engaged. When her body was found off that kid's tip, he was convinced the kid must've known more. Maybe even been involved and got immunity for some shit reason. It was obvious NCIS had a deal with him."

Harris raised his eyes to glare at the two senior agents. "We had the junkie's intake photo and the photo of his friend, the one too strung out to be questioned." He shrugged. "We started showing them around to our contacts, found out that they were probably Colombian. So we sent them to the Colombian task force." Harris straightened, eyes glittering with conviction. "Declan O'Donnell is a member of the Colombian Security Commission. He flew up here to help us search for wanted South American nationals believed to be on the East Coast - like your informant," he hissed at Gibbs. "He's been pegged for multiple murders and kidnappings. That kid is part of a Colombian gang moving into the old Reynosa territory. They're trying to take over the Reynosa distribution points throughout the US, including DC." Harris leaned forward, seething. "Do you even know who you're dealing with?"

Gibbs' phone started to buzz toward the end of that.

He'd heard all he need to know anyway, and pushed away from the table. "Get this idiot out of my building, Tobias." He stood up and walked out, already speaking into his phone. "Yeah, Duck."

Gibbs surveyed the bullpen and his oblivious team as he listened to the doctor's findings.

**x**

"Where's Gibbs?"

"Meeting with Fornell."

All three of them cast dubious looks up at the closed conference room door. And then fixed their stares determinedly back on the screens in front of them.

"This is impossible," McGee groused, and started flipping through the satellite and airfield images at an even faster rate. There was more than a little despair in his tone. "Even if O'Donnell and his team haven't already left, he wouldn't stroll into an airport at this point unless he was disguised, no matter how small and obscure it is."

The FBI had insisted on interviewing the family members and retracing their dead agents' steps themselves, without NCIS interference. Gibbs hadn't seemed to care. His priority was identifying the unknown victims and tracking down O'Donnell as quickly as possible.

Without alerting Colombian authorities. Or any authorities, really.

Abby and Ducky were their best hopes for leads, beyond waiting for the CIA to call. But forensic identification took time, and there was almost nothing the team could do about that but wait for Ducky and Abby to finish their work.

It took seventy-two hours to determine a DNA match. Tony looked up to see Ziva glancing at her watch, and did the same. Sixty-eight hours to go.

Tony looked at the thousandth missing-white-male photo of the morning and clicked right on by it, just as he had every one before. McGee's computer program had swept and dismissed anyone whose face was in the missing persons database, but the program wasn't always that accurate. And anyway, the most recent disappearances weren't even in the database.

"Doubt a guy like that would stoop to dealing with airport security, McGee," Tony said. "He's at the top of one of the world's biggest cartels. If he wants to bypass the security line he can just buy an airline. Or his very own airport."

"It is much more likely that the CIA - or one of that agency's _friends_ - will find him," Ziva agreed.

Which they'd better do, and fast. If Londono found out that O'Donnell had rebelled and declared war on the cartel's behalf the organization's leadership would disappear in a hurry.

They fell silent, engrossed in their tasks. There was only the sound of computer mouses clicking.

The suspicious quiet went on for too long. Ziva looked up and was not surprised to see that her partner was staring into space.

"What is it, Tony?"

He shrugged and went back to his screen. "It's all pretty convenient, isn't it?"

McGee and Ziva looked at him like he'd announced he was going on vacation after lunch, or something equally ludicrous.

"Come on," Tony said. "This hot case comes along and distracts us from our surveillance of the cartel? And from interrogating the informants we took in last night just when Gibbs and Kort are ready to start planning their next move against them?" Tony shrugged. "Maybe that's the plan. He attacks us here, and distracts us from attacking the cartel at home. Maybe we're playing into his hands by narrowing the focus to chase O'Donnell," he continued, warming to the idea. "If he thinks Kort's African safari buddy is about to rat him out, O'Donnell wouldn't have much to lose."

"But plenty to gain," Ziva nodded. "If he can contact the cartel and convince them he was acting in its interests. If they have sufficient warning the leaders could use the time to go into hiding or to obscure their activities. Perhaps even offer up a sacrificial goat."

"Sacrificial lamb," Tony said distantly. Still pondering.

"Interesting theories. What do you think?"

Tony jumped. Gibbs' voice was intense, pitched to carry, and coming from directly over his head. He twisted around and peered up. The boss was standing on the landing right behind Tony's chair, leaning easily against the steel railings.

"Hey boss. We were . . . "

Tony trailed off. Gibbs wasn't paying any attention to him. He was focused on something across the bullpen. Tony turned curiously to follow Gibbs' gaze, because it didn't seem fixed on anyone else on the team, either.

The boss was looking at the partition just beyond Ziva's chair. Tony had to stand to see over it. Ziva and McGee did the same.

And gaped just like Tony did.

Gray was sitting at the empty desk on the other side of the wall, his head bent over some papers, flipping through them casually.

Were those from the shred box?

"How did you get in here?" Tony demanded.

The kid ignored the questions. But he did look up to meet Gibbs' stare.

Gibbs spun and continued down the rest of the stairs, and the kid slipped out from behind the desk, walking around the partition to keep him in sight. When Gibbs reached the bullpen and crooked a finger Gray came forward, a little.

"What are you doing here, Gray?"

Tony stiffened. Gibbs' voice was soothing, calm. _Nice_.

The kid blinked, and looked Gibbs over like he thought he may have been body snatched.

"Heard you might have my mother's head in your morgue," he said bluntly. "Came to ID her."

None of them responded immediately. But the kid wasn't in the mood to wait for them to catch up. "I need an agent with me to get in there," he prompted.

"You need an agent with you to get in _here_," Tony said.

Gray glanced at him dismissively. An _obviously not_. "The basement is more secure than this floor," he said.

And then the kid fell silent and glanced around expectantly. Waiting for someone to take him to the morgue.


	55. Bad Days

**Chapter 55: Bad Days**

The FBI Agent who interrogated and threatened Gray, who actually broke him, was still in the upstairs conference room.

All of the conference rooms were upstairs.

So Gibbs waved a hand toward his desk, and stepped in that direction for good measure. "Why don't you sit down?"

The boss glanced at McGee and the probie grabbed the spare chair from the empty desk next to his, shoving it in Gibbs' direction.

But the kid didn't budge, or even look at the offered chair. His hair was wet and his clothes were damp and he obviously didn't give a damn about Gibbs' polite invitation to join him for a chat. "The morgue is downstairs."

"Yeah." Gibbs' voice was quiet, no snark at all. "I know where it is. Come sit down."

Gray glanced impatiently back toward the stairs.

To actually sit he would have to turn his back on Tony and McGee. He stopped before he got to that point and stood there looking at Gibbs, as if whatever conversation was coming would be just fine tossed across the bullpen.

Gibbs glared pointedly at his team and they hurriedly sat back down to continue their searches. Both Gibbs and Gray seemed stressed and wary, and nobody wanted to provoke either one.

Anyway, anyone who worked for Gibbs gained the ability to multitask on about six different levels. Doing their jobs and eavesdropping on a conversation at the same time wasn't a problem. Tony and Ziva resumed clicking through photos of missing persons who might match their unidentified heads. Tim scrolled through possible leads from the CIA on O'Donnell's whereabouts. None of them looked like they would dream of paying the slightest attention to anything at all beyond the private little territories of their desks.

When Gibbs reclaimed his own seat Gray finally moved silent and quick into the swivel chair set in front of the boss's desk.

Gibbs didn't waste any time. "How did you know there were bodies recovered here this morning?"

The silence that followed felt huge after the impatience of Gray's movements just a few seconds before.

But their bulldog boss sat there serene, like he'd found his inner Buddha and was prepared to wait forever.

"Why don't we talk about it on the way, Gibbs." A low, flat challenge.

"If there was a security breach I need to know about it now," Gibbs said. "We're hoping we can keep Londono from finding out, but that doesn't seem likely if you already know. How do you?"

"Heard about traffic in the area. Cop came to check it out."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "You just happened to hear about traffic around the Navy Yard?"

"No."

Gibbs tilted his head, a_ come on_ gesture.

Tony couldn't see the kid's face. But Gray leaned smoothly forward, and his tone became weirdly charming as he reached out to fiddle with the pencil holder on Gibbs' desk. "We fucked with him yesterday, didn't we? No way he leaves it like that."

Tony and Ziva's eyes met, startled, and wandered discreetly back to Gibbs and the kid. Gray had never spoken to them like that before.

"I thought you'd pay for letting him live, Gibbs." The tinge of sadness almost sincere. "But that was stupid, wasn't it?"

Gibbs knew without a doubt this was a weapon the kid used against O'Donnell. And now he was finally desperate enough to try it on Gibbs. Gray was young and too sophisticated, sexualized and too aggressive, reeking of violence and charm, all blood and honey.

An edge of wrongness hovered over them - the kind a man like O'Donnell would be drawn to.

The kid smiled, dark and beautiful, as if he knew what Gibbs was thinking.

Gibbs abruptly pressed on. He didn't get rattled in an interview or negotiation, or whatever the hell this was.

"Stupid? How's that?"

"You people don't pay," the kid said, still sweet like a candy-dipped knife. "Not like we do. I just want to see her."

A seductive current ran under the words. _I'll pay.__  
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Gibbs nodded, brushing off the demand - and suggestion - at the same time. "So Cassie came out and saw the scene?" With the perimeter the Marines had enforced? Not possible.

Gray grit his teeth and answered slowly. "No. She called Kort."

"I called Kort too, didn't get an answer. You know where he is?"

"Yep."

Stark silence.

Gibbs looked into Gray's eyes, and caught the very, very thin sheen of trust there. Gray only came to Gibbs for help when it was necessary, when he had nowhere else to turn. Gibbs was never able to do much, but he always did what he could - at least what was asked of him. Always came through.

But not today.

"I understand that you want to see her. But I can't allow that."

"Yes, you can."

He didn't deny it. He didn't say anything. Because that was technically true.

"Why?" The sweetness was gone.

Gibbs studied Gray for a long moment. The kid didn't so much as blink under the scrutiny.

"You told me yourself that you haven't seen her in six years," Gibbs said. "That would make you - what, eight, maybe nine years old when you last saw her?"

"So?"

The boss sat forward, nodding very slightly. Like he always did when he was being nice, when he was trying to connect. "So even if you could identify her we would need to confirm it with a DNA test. It's been too long, Gray. You can't provide a reliable ID."

Everyone seemed to still, waiting to see how that would land.

"No one can," Gray said stiffly.

"We don't have anyone here who can provide a visual ID," Gibbs agreed. "But there are other ways to identify remains."

"I'm not giving you my DNA."

Tony frowned at the flat, unequivocal refusal. All his years as a cop flagged it. There was something hiding there.

The boss looked at Gray, stone-faced, and said nothing. It didn't take long for the penny to drop.

"You're using my blood."

Gibbs nodded. It had been all over his clothes and Duck's instruments on the night Gray showed up at his house injured.

"You've already run it, haven't you."

"Yes," Gibbs said, totally unapologetic. He'd given it to Abby the next day.

Interesting. The kid was a little too still - he really didn't like that.

"Why bother when I can ID her now? DNA tests take a long time."

"Seventy-two hours," Gibbs said evenly. "Not that long."

Tony blinked for what felt like the first time since the conversation started. Gibbs generally referred to that inflexible seventy-two-hour window, out of Abby's earshot, as some variation of 'a dammit to hell and back fucking absurd eternity.'

"I remember her," the kid said. Very hard, like a warning. "I can ID her now."

"But we would still have to wait for the test to confirm." Gibbs paused before gently, finally, pointing out the obvious. "And if it is a match for your mother it'll be better this way."

Gray stared at him. He didn't get it.

"The way they left her," Gibbs explained. "That's not what your memory of her should be."

The kid laughed, short and soft, sending ice up Tony's spine. "That's not a problem."

"It is for me," Gibbs said. "We'll wait for the test."

"It's not your call to make."

"Remains discovered on the Navy Yard that are now part of an NCIS investigation? It's my decision. And this is the right call."

Gray let his eyes rest on Gibbs for a long moment, and then his gaze swept the squad room, like he was assessing the space.

Tony shifted restlessly. The kid was controlled, usually. But there was a good possibility that his mother's head was in their morgue, and all because the team hadn't taken O'Donnell out when they had a chance. Gray had been angry even before Gibbs stonewalled him. And somehow, he'd snuck into the building without going through security. Which meant he was armed.

"What about Kort? Are you sure he couldn't give us a visual ID?" Gibbs asked.

Gray continued his casual study of the room. "You'd have to ask Kort."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "And you'd have to tell us where he is. Or tell him to come in, if he's taking your calls."

Gray leaned forward again to pluck a pencil out of the holder on Gibbs' desk, studying the number two as if it was riveting. "Go to hell," he said pleasantly.

He spun the pencil slowly, distractingly, through the short silence that followed. "So O'Donnell's finally gone and killed some of your own. Is that enough? Or do the dead actually have to be on your team?"

Gibbs didn't flinch, exactly.

But he did his version of it - the gaze grew cooler.

"To answer your question," Gray continued idly. "I think Tony's right. This will distract you from the cartel. In Colombia they'll spin it like O'Donnell's gone rogue. And you'll need the cartel's help to track him down, won't you? Except the CIA won't call it the cartel for this. They'll say the alliance is with a powerful businessman, a man who's already been such a big help in the war. Londono and his organization will end up being even more untouchable than they already are. A new era of cooperation," Gray smiled faintly. "Should be easy enough to find someone to play O'Donnell."

The pencil spun steadily. "Or maybe Londono will just give Diablo up, get rid of him since he's become such a nuisance. Wouldn't it be funny," deadly, "if the cartel turned out to be more useful than you?"

"We're not going to sell you out," Gibbs said. As if the idea was ridiculous.

Tony wasn't so sure. What would they be able to do, realistically, if the CIA and the cartel struck a deal? Gray would be out in the cold. And so would Gibbs' team.

"You think they'll give you a choice? You'll join them if you can. If you can't you'll run, or you'll die. That's how it works when both sides want you dead. If Diablo has a chance to work this with Londono I'm done."

He really was thinking about ditching Gibbs' team in the middle of the game, just like he'd threatened the other night. Tony glared at the screen in front of him, his back straightening in instinctive protest.

What would it mean if Gray cut out from the team? A lifetime of hiding? _You'll join them if you can_ . . . or maybe he'd go for some sort of deal with the CIA.

"O'Donnell is on the offensive in a way that he wasn't before," Gibbs acknowledged. "He's a priority now, and we'll deal with him. He won't be able to distract us."

"Your team is looking at missing persons photos, Gibbs. You think Diablo has been reported missing?" Gray asked, still considering that pointy pencil.

In a normal case the sarcastic, angry, know-it-all teenager would be packed off to a counselor or social services by now, or ideally sent home.

But Gray actually did have valuable information, information they would need. And he could probably get whatever NCIS intel he wanted anyway, since Kort and the CIA treated him as an asset.

He _was_ an asset.

Kort was right. Gray was in too deep, and from this, at least, Gibbs couldn't protect him. He took a fortifying breath.

"There were three unidentified people discovered here this morning. Finding out who they are and notifying their families is also a priority. After that this case will be handed over to another team here, or to the FBI, so that my team can concentrate on sifting through intelligence on the cartel."

"You find anything with them? The heads?"

"Such as?"

"She wore a cross," the kid probed.

"No. Nothing like that."

"Was there anything else missing?"

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, the nicest version of _try to make sense_ that he had in his repetoire.

"The heads," Gray said slowly. Like he was talking to an idiot. "Eyes, ears, tongues? They all there?"

Tony looked up sharply, realizing what Gibbs must have known all along. That question was too knowing. The kid had experience with this.

Were they really going to _use_ him?

"Yes," the boss said gruffly. "They were intact."

Apparently they were.

"How did you find them?"

Gibbs shook his head slightly, and Gray elaborated. "In a pile? Thrown in the road? Set up pretty?"

"They were upright, set in a line. Mounted on platforms."

Gray nodded, and seemed to think for a minute. Around him the team appeared to work busily. Gibbs was still, waiting, the unflappable eye in the storm.

"O'Donnell and the cartel are your priority," Gray tested.

"Yes."

"Kort said you would take care of everyone necessary. Everyone that I think is necessary."

Gibbs nodded.

"It has to happen fast. With O'Donnell. Soon."

Another curt nod. "It will."

Gray put the pencil back into the holder on Gibbs' desk. "Cartels think of themselves as family organizations. They look at their enemies the same way." His voice was still cool, but now it was efficient, too.

Like he'd accepted the terms and was moving on to business.

Tony gave up the pretense of looking at the missing persons photos. This sounded a lot more useful.

Gibbs was thoughtful. "What does that mean? O'Donnell will see the FBI as a family?"

"No. It means that it was sloppy of the Reynosas to leave you alive. Male relatives should be the first round to go."

Gibbs studied Gray curiously, with almost too much understanding. Like he was reading the kid's face and had found several paragraphs.

Gray broke the silence. "Maybe they couldn't get to you because you were deployed. You said you've identified three of the heads? I'd look at their sons first." Gibbs got it, then, and a quicksilver flash of that slick, unsettling charm crept back into Gray's voice. "The younger the better, for Diablo. Then brothers, nephews, uncles -"

Gibbs shifted slightly toward McGee. "McGee - "

Tim was wide-eyed, his fingers already a blur over the keyboard. "Personnel records for Agents Dargas and Arena, boss. I'm pulling them up."

Tony and Ziva abandoned their screens and watched McGee intently.

"Dargas has three kids, two sons and a daughter. The daughter lives in Texas, the oldest son in Portland, Oregon. The younger is college-aged . . . he goes to GW, boss. Lives on campus. I'm pulling up his license. Just a second . . . "

Gray got up halfway through that and approached Tim's desk, moving behind it so that he could see the results without crowding too close.

Tony and Ziva stood and drifted closer to the big central screen.

It only took a few seconds. Tim frowned at what came up, and wordlessly sent it to the plasma. Jonathan Dargas' ID appeared there, the photo larger than life.

"Damn," Tony muttered.

Dargas Jr's head was in their morgue all right. Palmer had unknowingly set it on the next table over from his father.

Gibbs stood up, brushing past Tony and Ziva. "Keep an eye on him," he muttered, and headed toward the stairs.

Gray's eyes followed Gibbs out of the bullpen, and sought out Tony's when the boss faded from view.

"He's going to update our director. And the FBI's going to want to know right away."

"Hm." Gray turned back to look over Gibbs' desk. And strolled behind it, sitting casually in Gibbs' seat. Tim's eyebrows just about shot off his head.

Tony kept his incredulity on the inside. "Ah. I would recommend a different chair," he said. "Gibbs is kind of touchy about his space, so - "

"If he wants me out of his space he can send me home." Gray picked up a sensitive report and skimmed it. "Without an escort. What's wrong with him?"

"Nice Gibbs," Tony said shortly, and walked over to pluck the paper out of the kid's hands. "It happens sometimes. On bad days."

On Very Bad Days.

"Bad days?" Gray said mildly, and turned his attention back to the desk, scanning for more stuff that he obviously shouldn't read.

"When he's upset," Tony explained.

"So what's bad about today?"

They all looked at him warily.

It took Ziva a moment to realize that it wasn't sarcasm or anger or manipulation, or any of that. Beyond the sly misdirection it was genuine. A question.

"If it is true that your mother has died then Gibbs will grieve for her," she said simply. "And for you, for your loss. Come," she removed a small gym towel and a sweatshirt from a bag behind her desk and waved a hand toward the restrooms. "You can dry off in the men's room. With any luck Gibbs' chair will also be dry by the time he returns," she said wryly.

Gray smirked unrepentantly and sauntered after her, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"Don't let him out of your sight!" Tony called after her. Right over the kid's head.

She waved a hand, acknowledging the warning.


	56. Trace

**Chapter 56: Trace**

He watched as Ziva pushed open the men's room door and announced that anyone in there had better get out. When no one emerged she gestured Gray in and stationed herself grimly in front of the door, looking for all the world like the assassin she used to be.

A few minutes passed before McGee quietly announced that he had a hit on another of their unknown heads. Apparently Fred Arena had a brother, an accountant for a private firm in Baltimore. Now Fred and his brother were dead, their heads under Ducky's bright lights.

McGee called Gibbs' cell with the information. It was an extremely short conversation.

"Tony? . . . Hey, Tony."

"Yeah, McGee."

"You alright?"

Tony's eyes wandered vaguely in Tim's direction. "Never better, Probie. What'd you need?"

McGee frowned at him like he'd said something strange. Then he got up and went over to pick up Tony's desk phone. Which Tony only then realized was ringing.

"Agent Dinozzo's desk."

He was about to snatch the receiver out of McGee's hands when Tim's eyes went wide. McGee covered the mouthpiece and stared at the team's senior agent like he so rarely did these days - like an actual probie.

"It's O'Donnell," he whispered.

**x**

Gibbs brought Fornell with him to Vance's office so that he could update both of them at the same time. Tobias blew out of there immediately when Gibbs finished, determined to reach the families of the FBI agents before gossip or a leak could beat him to it.

Gibbs sat at Vance's conference table after Tobias left, still like a statue in the quiet that followed the slam of the door.

It seemed like he'd forgotten where he was. Vance would think he had, if he didn't know for a fact that Gibbs never entirely forgot his surroundings.

"How likely is it that this woman is the boy's mother?"

"What?"

Vance frowned and got up, coming out from behind his desk. "The last ID - the Jane Doe? Are we sure she's not one of ours?"

Gibbs finally returned his attention to the room, but the look in his eyes was dismissive. "McGee said he ran her against female relatives of the known victims. Didn't find anything."

It'd been years since Leon Vance was an active agent. But he'd been damn good in the interrogation room in his day. He could usually tell when there was more to a story, even with Gibbs. "And?"

Gibbs tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Duck says she was killed at least a few days before the others and kept cold to delay decay. All of the victims have been dead for less than 48 hours except for her."

"So if O'Donnell is behind this he killed her before he arrived in the States. And brought her head with him from Colombia?"

Gibbs looked down at the table in front of him, smoothing a big, blunt hand absently over the slick surface. "He's behind it."

Leon cast one last glance at his desk, at the pile of reports to read through and the list of calls to make. Then he pulled out a chair at the conference table and sat down across from Gibbs. He had a feeling the other man would be pacing autopsy right now if he had the choice, grunting through whatever uncertainty this was with Mallard. But their ME was busy. Which left Vance.

"What makes you so sure it's O'Donnell?"

Gibbs' jaw moved for a few moments before he answered. Vance's eyes followed closely, hardly believing what he was seeing. Gibbs hadn't looked this disturbed when Vance introduced himself as director by splitting up the sacred team.

"Same MO as plenty of Calera assassinations in the past," Gibbs muttered.

"A lot of cartels decapitate rivals and use the heads for shock value."

"Yeah."

Vance raised an eyebrow.

"Gray thinks it's O'Donnell," Gibbs said. "That's good enough for me."

An extraordinary thing for this agent to say. Vance nodded, at last getting a feel for the problem. "So Kort was right. Kid's going to be useful."

Gibbs shifted restlessly, letting his eyes drift to the window. "Almost the first thing he said to me, in Colombia, was that he knew what it felt like to be whipped," he said abruptly, voice flat. "And I thought, you know, if this kid actually gets me out of here I'm going to make sure he gets out too. But I can't. Because he's too goddamn useful."

The room was intensely quiet. Vance straightened his shoulders, waiting for Gibbs to go on.

"Gray had the leverage he needed to make a deal with O'Donnell," Gibbs said. "A deal to protect the other kids he runs with. And the CIA wants him too, for whatever reason. He's always been useful, to all of them. To all of _us_," Gibbs said bitterly. "He's made sure of it."

Was this Gibbs' version of compassion? Defeat? If it was resolve it didn't look like any that Vance recognized. He decided that he preferred the usual, rude, easy-to-decipher Gibbs. And that it was time to lay his cards on the table.

"Once you take out the cartel's leadership he'll be free of them," he said simply.

His most cunning agent refocused, considering Vance carefully. Silently.

The director smiled a little. Gibbs didn't know much about Leon's past. But it was not all conference calls and memos. "How many, Gibbs?"

He sat back and blew out a breath. A _what the hell_ sigh. "Fifteen at least, probably closer to twenty. The only way to be sure is to work it out with Gray. And Kort's informant, Hanlan. His information should be more current."

Vance winced. That was a lot. And to involve the kid . . . but if Gibbs thought it was necessary it must be. "You going to tell him? Gray?"

"He already knows."

"And the CIA is going to be okay with it?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Kort says they won't stand in the way, as long as they have a say in the new management."

Vance stared at him. "_You're_ okay with that?"

"Not really. But we left the position open last time," Gibbs said. "Look how well that turned out."

Vance frowned, disconcerted by the man's toneless answers. So he went back to the other thing - the mysterious usefulness. "Has Kort told you why it is they want him?"

"No."

But Gibbs suspected something, Vance could tell. He thought it over. The CIA would want information, and power over the cartel if they could possibly get it. O'Donnell would just want power.

How could the kid promise them that? Vance narrowed his eyes. "Do you think Gray offered either of them Londono's son?"

"No way."

It wouldn't have explained the CIA anyway. Hiding and protecting Londono's child wouldn't give the Agency anything unless they were actually willing to trade the boy away, give him back to the cartel. And Vance didn't happen to think they were literally soulless over at Langley, tempting as it was to believe at times.

"Well why would O'Donnell think the kid had power in the cartel?" Wait a minute. "Does Gray have some other family connection? How sure are you that his father is dead?"

"He's dead. And I don't care why they want him." Gibbs' phone started to ring. He continued to look seriously at Vance as he dug it out of his pocket. "They're not going to get him."

Gibbs glanced down at the ID, and from the relieved look on his face Vance suspected the man was only sitting in his office to avoid going back to the bullpen with no leads. It would be killing him to wait for forensics while Fornell's agents handled the field work.

"Yeah, McGee." Gibbs was already turning away. He was out of the director's office without another word, phone still pressed to his ear, door swinging after him.

With any luck that was a lead. Of course Vance would be among the last to know if it was, since agents had to work it first.

He looked disgustedly at the pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk and heaved himself up from the conference table with a sigh. He mumbled something about barnyard animals as he walked to the door to close it, and then returned to his desk to get back to work.

**x**

Tony tore the phone from McGee's grip.

_Trace_, he mouthed, and jerked his head back toward Tim's desk. McGee scrambled around him and lunged for his equipment.

"This is Very Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo." Tony watched McGee, waiting for the thumbs up that would tell him they had the location. "How may I direct your call?"

"Oh lovely." A smooth, familiar voice. Tony's stomach flipped in automatic excitement, because McGee was right. It was O'Donnell. "I had hoped to speak to you, Agent Dinozzo."

"And who is this?"

O'Donnell laughed a little, delighted to play the game. After the weird scene with Cassie at the thruway exit Tony had no doubt the man would be happy to play just about any game.

"Declan O'Donnell speaking."

"Mr. O'Donnell. What can I do for you?"

"Well, as I think you are aware I've been working recently with the FBI. And I must say their file on you, Agent Dinozzo, is fascinating."

"I bet."

Tim had his cell crammed against his shoulder now, speaking into it even as he typed.

How long would it take? O'Donnell didn't sound like he was in much of a hurry to get to the point. So he'd obscured the source of the call.

But that was alright. McGee was the best.

"I almost decided to drop in on you before I left Washington," O'Donnell continued. "But it was only a short trip, I'm afraid. And there was such a lot to do."

"That's a shame," Tony said cheerfully. "But you're welcome to come by any time. Always happy to make new friends."

"Really? You know I had looked forward to meeting your supervisor last May, in Colombia. An Agent Gibbs? But he didn't make it to the meeting. And now I know more about you, Anthony, I begin to suspect that I have you to blame."

At that moment there was a blur of movement to his left. Tony looked up to find Gibbs staring back at him.

"Speaker," Gibbs said lowly, and reached down to press the button.

"Gibbs didn't show up?" Tony placed the handset gently in the cradle. "That doesn't sound like him."

"Is that so? After reading your histories I'd the impression that you were the loyal one, always . . . turning up unexpectedly. An admirable trait, even if it did get in the way of my chat with such an interesting man as Gibbs. My own employer was a bit tedious to deal with after that." A pause, and a breath. Was the guy smoking? "Destroying his helicopter was a nice touch, I must say. We were forced to stoop to the indignity of a Cesna to make our own escape from that cesspit."

Gibbs waved him on. _Keep him talking._

"Thanks, I think. Did you call to offer me a job, O'Donnell? Or are you just flirting with me?"

Another creepy laugh. "I think we both know you don't have a passion for my line of work. No, I called to see if you'd received my gift for Daniel."

Tony's eyes shot away from Gibbs', back to the phone.

To hell with this tip-toeing crap.

"I don't know anyone by that name," he said calmly. "Diablo."

Gibbs stilled, and so did Tim, for just a second.

"My my," O'Donnell murmured. "That sounds familiar. How intriguing."

"Well, I do get around," Tony said smoothly, and closed his eyes briefly. Somewhere Kate was about to lead generations of Dinozzo nonnas as they spun in their graves. "Just ask the ladies."

"Apparently so. My congratulations. And such a feisty girl. Pretty too, beyond that . . . discoloration. Unfortunate that I couldn't arrange a gift for her, but I've only got eyes for Daniel." A pause, a breath. Smoking, definitely. "And not a blemish on him, is there?"

Tony glanced at Tim. He had to be close by now, didn't he? But McGee was still staring intently at his screen, typing sporadically. Just past him Tony's eyes tracked two figures. Gray had reappeared and was moving toward the pen, followed by Ziva. Tony met Gibbs' eyes again and cut that way, his head tilting slightly with the movement. Gibbs followed the look.

"If you have a package for anyone at NCIS it's best to send it to an agent directly," Tony said helpfully. "And be sure to leave a return address. The post office insists on that."

"Mmm. The postal service." O'Donnell practically wrinkled his nose through the phone. "It lacks a certain flair."

Gray froze in front of McGee's desk. He'd heard.

Ziva followed behind him, eyes darting from Tony to Gibbs, wondering what was going on. Gibbs pointed at her and twirled his finger. _Get him out of here_.

"And I've always preferred the personal touch," O'Donnell purred.

Gibbs' hand darted toward Tony's phone to take it off speaker. But Gray moved quickly, slipping out from under Ziva's attempt to stop him, seizing Gibbs' wrist before he could hit the button.

"A phone call isn't very personal, is it?" he said, looking at Gibbs.

"Daniel?"

"Hello, Dex."


	57. Dex

**Chapter 57: Dex**

The kid took his hand once before.

That first night, in the jungle, when Gibbs couldn't see two inches in front of his face. Gray took his hand and led him through the trees, through the dark.

Now the kid was looking at him like he wanted Gibbs to follow once again.

"Who else is there, Daniel?"

Gibbs nodded slightly.

"Dinozzo, Gibbs, McGee and David," Gray said. He'd turned from Gibbs to face the phone. But his hand still clutched Gibbs' wrist, thin fingers strong and cool. "It's an open office, there are others around. But no one else is listening."

A soft exhale. "Did you see what I brought you?"

"No." Gray shoved Gibbs' hand away and released him.

"Not even photographs?"

"No. They don't want me to see." The agents' eyes widened. Gray usually sounded like an adult, and a hard one. But those words were almost absurdly young.

"Mm, a shame. They can be cruel even when they're trying to be kind. I told you that before."

"I know." Gray leaned forward, placing both hands on Tony's desk. "They think - " a very slight hesitation, " - that I wouldn't recognize her. If it is her."

"Well. I can at least save you the uncertainty, Daniel," O'Donnell said kindly. "It is your mother. Her death was necessary. The others - honestly, the choice there wasn't all that important, any of them would do. But I couldn't resist the ones who pushed you around. You shouldn't put up with that sort of treatment."

Gray stared at the phone, motionless. There was another shush of exhalation from the speaker.

"Do you feel badly?" O'Donnell asked curiously.

"Yeah," Gray said simply, no hesitation.

"I know you had fond memories of her. I chose those particular FBI agents to make it up to you. I heard all about what they did from Arena, and from that CIA woman as well. Of course she also admitted her own ineptitude, in the end, for not helping you sooner. Tell me, did they leave any marks on you?"

It took Gray a moment to respond. "No. Nothing permanent."

"Ah, good. That's something."

Tony glanced at Gibbs. The boss was standing close to the kid, like some hulking, ineffectual buffer. But he was staring at McGee. Tim was muttering urgently into a headset now, still typing.

O'Donnell's protections were really good, then.

"I don't understand," Gray said, soft and flat. "Why her."

O'Donnell sighed though the phone, clearly annoyed. "Beyond the abysmal way she treated you? The cunt was living with Roberto, Daniel. She would have had another brat with him. And then where would you be?"

Grays hands curled into fists. "Londono?"

"Yes."

"You found her with him."

"Yes, Daniel."

In the pause that followed Gray raised an arm, silent, to swipe at his eyes. Gibbs' hand hovered tentatively over one of his shoulders, and finally rested there lightly.

"I should have tied her to a fence and had her stoned," O'Donnell said carelessly, "for betraying you. Do you remember that whore in Huila?"

"Remember all of them, Dex."

"All of the whores?" O'Donnell asked teasingly.

A choked laugh - the most obscene thing Tony had ever heard.

"Them too," Gray said.

"Well, your mother's death was boring in comparison, if it makes you feel better. I knew you wouldn't want her to suffer, though she warped your mind and utterly deserved it," he added, irritated. "It was a shot to the chest, Daniel, lights out. And now you and Sean are both better off. Even your bitch mother would agree with me there."

A long moment of quiet as the kid went tense, digesting that. And then . . .

"Thank you," Gray said softly.

Gibbs wasn't watching McGee anymore. He stared at the kid, at the part of his face he could see. That had sounded sincere.

"Mm. How is America then? You're not getting fat are you?"

"No. It's okay." Gray spoke quickly. "School football's terrible. TV's like you said too."

"What else? Still going to church to pray for your soul?"

"Can't hurt," the kid mumbled. Like a much younger boy.

"Of course it can. Just look at you."

Gray didn't respond.

"I have your mother's cross here. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah."

"I was tempted to have it melted down and inlaid on this beautiful antique pistol I picked up in Cape Town. I know there is no afterlife," O'Donnell said lazily, "still I like the idea of pissing her off for all eternity. But I decided to wait and save it for you. Perhaps that and the pistol would make a nice gift on your return."

"Yeah. Thanks," Gray said. "For keeping it."

He sounded way too vulnerable, now, and Tony stiffened. He'd been undercover plenty of times, and he knew how good a lie could be. But he wasn't sure it was possible to act that young - that lost - without feeling it.

"Ah. That was your cue to tell me about your recent adventure. Your actual return? I don't quite believe that Agent Dinozzo found his way through Calera land with a compass and a dream. Unless it was one of the others?"

Gray hunched his shoulders slightly at that, curling in like he'd taken a blow. But when he spoke his voice was steady, even reaching for indifference. "No. I led them there."

"Please don't tell me the helicopter was you? It was hardly subtle."

"No. That was the agents."

"Good. And the ten men who vanished?"

Gray stayed close to the phone, leaning on Tony's desk, but he shifted a little so that he wasn't looking at it anymore. "Gibbs did two."

"My, you do get into trouble," O'Donnell said fondly. "Anything I would find amusing?"

Gray stood staring into nothing for a few moments, silence stretching like a tightrope over a horrible fall. Gibbs turned him gently by the shoulder. Bent close to look into his dull eyes, and shook his head. _You don't have to do this._

Gray ignored him.

"Maybe. The last one," he said, and laughed a little. Still looking at Gibbs. "Didn't get him fast enough. He was on to me. Had to chase him down."

"After you'd killed the rest of the patrol? He'd be a dumb fuck not to run, wouldn't he?"

"You'd think. He was too scared to move quiet, though. So he stopped to hide." Gray was looking at him so intensely. Gibbs returned the stare calmly. "That could have been alright, since it was one-on-one. But it was dark and he didn't have night gear with him."

"Careless," O'Donnell observed.

"Yeah. Well he was trying to be quiet, and I wasn't sure where he was, just that he was close. Then I heard him talking to himself. Turned out he was praying. And sort of . . . crying. Out loud."

O'Donnell laughed softly. "That is amusing."

"I think he thought they were only in his head. He was too freaked to realize he was really saying them." Gray frowned at Gibbs as if puzzled, and finally turned back to the phone. "Guy must've been new. Or really stupid."

"A lot of people are very stupid when they're terrified."

"Yeah," Gray said.

"It's not like he'd have gotten away from you even if he'd stayed silent. So did you kill him slowly, show him how meaningless his prayers really were?"

"One to the head."

"You're no fun, Danny boy."

"No, I know."

"It still makes me want to fuck you through a wall. We could have caught up face to face in DC. What was all that drama about?"

"Didn't know who it was. We don't just stop for anybody, Dex. What was with the thug escort, anyway?"

Gray had returned to staring at a blank spot on Dinozzo's desk.

"Liar," O'Donnell said. "You knew it was me. If only since I've always got a thug escort."

"The FBI?" Gray snorted.

"Ah yes. That was new. And a particularly dumb crew, too. Dargas and Arena died in a very satisfying way, I'd say. Sometime when four federal agents aren't eavesdropping I'll tell you all about it."

"Think I can guess," Gray said quietly.

"Yea, I'm sure you can. So Daniel," a pause, followed by a long, lazy breath. "Have they given up trying to track me down yet?"

Gray glanced toward McGee. "No. They're not really the giving up sort."

"And you didn't tell them how useless it would be?"

"Yeah. What'd you say? Quid pro quo, right?"

A delighted little laugh. "Exactly. Perhaps you have a sense of humor after all."

"And . . . wanted to catch up, Dex."

"Hm. Don't stay up there forever, Danny boy. I've not got the patience of a saint."

When the line went dead Gray spun away, shoving past Gibbs - heading for the stairs. Ziva surged after him, but Gibbs seized her arm.

"Let him go." As Gray disappeared Gibbs continued turning in the opposite direction, until the only reasonable, convenient target for his anger was in sight.

"McGee!" he roared.

Ziva stepped nimbly out of the way.

But McGee didn't even flinch. He ignored Gibbs totally, except to raise his own voice to whomever he was talking to over the headset. There was a flurry of technobabble that none of the rest of them understood, followed by a loud, "I have the clearance!"

Silence. Tim's face was getting purple, the vein in his forehead mimicking Gibbs'. It was the first time in all their years together that Tony had found anything about the two men to be remotely similar.

"I will!" Tim shouted.

And then McGee ripped the headset off and threw it at his computer. For a few moments they were all still, a weird silence around them.

It ended when Gibbs picked up his desk phone and called Vance.

**x**

Twenty minutes later they stood stiff and unusually quiet in MTAC, the entire team staring ferociously at the onscreen image of Kort's supervisor.

"Yes," Holdner said. "It is possible they have the technology to obscure calls indefinitely. Probable, actually."

Vance looked fiercely at Gibbs' team, demanding their continued silence, before he responded. "How is that 'probable,' Holdner?"

"We developed the ability to block call tracing with a mobile unit in order to aid our operatives in the field. Actually, the technology doesn't block the trace so much as shift the satellite path of the call constantly, so that it's impossible to find its source. Our enemies were increasingly able to trace our calls just as we do theirs. We had to put an end to it."

"And how does that explain why anyone in the Calera cartel would have the technology to do the same?"

Holdner sighed.

"You're kidding me," Vance said flatly.

Tony frowned, looking between the two men. "The Caleras stole it from us?"

"No, Dinozzo," Vance said, gazing at the screen. "We gave it to them."

"Excuse me?" That was Ziva. Very, very calm. "_We_ gave it to them?"

"You are aware, I think, that the CIA and US Special Forces have worked closely with the Colombian government and important landowners in the region for decades," Holdner said. The tone soothing and reasonable. "The most powerful families and corporate interests have also been useful in operations against cartels and rebel forces in South and Central America - "

Gibbs turned on his heel and walked out.

**x**

That night, when David Holdner got home, he found Gibbs sitting in his living room. Holdner paused halfway across the darkened room and slowly turned to look at him.

"If I were the sort to get nervous this would definitely do it," he said.

"Safe to talk here?"

Holdner shrugged and fell into the sofa across from Gibbs. "Safe as anywhere."

"My man needs access to your eyes on South Africa and South America, and from there into the States. Anywhere that O'Donnell is known to travel frequently."

Holdner scratched his forehead. "We don't have - "

Gibbs laughed, loose and friendly.

"That's not possible," Holdner conceded.

"Yeah, thought you'd say that. You know, Gray said something really interesting today, too." Gibbs rubbed a hand over the deep, velvety brown material covering the arm of the couch, watching as the color shifted to a silvery gray when the dim light hit the fabric differently. He looked at it intently, like he might be interested in buying something similar. "He said the CIA would end up working with Londono's cartel in order to find O'Donnell. Said that the two of you would be happy to pin O'Donnell as the scapegoat. And he said Londono will use the opportunity to earn the CIA's protection. To cement his position as an ally."

"But O'Donnell isn't a scapegoat," Holder replied easily. "He's genuinely out of control, and a real threat. As for the cartel, protection is a bit far," he admitted. "But Roberto Londono has been useful. In many areas, over many years. It is a fact that Londono is an enemy of our enemies. Gray understands that, I think. From what I know of him the boy understands strategy better than half the graduates of the War College."

"Guess so, since he knew you would sell him out."

Holdner didn't go for the bait. "It is frustrating to have to work around an organization like the Calera cartel. But they are entrenched, and an all out war with them is not one we have the will to fight. Which means that we are required to work with them, or around them. Fortunately there are some benefits. In this case, O'Donnell - who is a threat to us all - will be found relatively easily and removed from the picture. And it is also true that we will have a better relationship with a powerful man who holds enormous influence over the government there. Londono may not be a friend, but in this case it is clear that he's the lesser of two evils. The devil we know, I guess you can say. We'll have a better base for our own operations in South America, and we'll have warned the Calera organization back a bit, checked some of its power."

Gibbs nodded thoughtfully. "A powerful man. Actually, Gray said you'd call Londono a powerful businessman, but close enough. You know what else he said?" Gibbs looked up at the ceiling, as if it would help him remember the exact words. "He said, 'You'll join them if you can. If you can't you'll run, or you'll die. That's how it works when both sides want you dead.'" Gibbs grinned a little. "Good advice. I guess he went to the Conlon school of war, huh? I heard about that guy in the Corps."

"I'm not surprised."

"Supposed to be a brilliant military mind, right? A small unit strategist, but good at organizing large groups too. Did some damage in Ireland. And a lot of damage in those Central American revolts. Did I get that right?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you ordered him killed?" Gibbs asked innocently. "Too clever?"

"What do you think? You saw up close the army that he was able to build - in just a few years, remember - with Calera resources at his back. Conlon was an unusually severe threat."

"And you left O'Donnell to step into his shoes. Because Declan O'Donnell is, what, Mr. Rodgers?"

"O'Donnell is a very cruel man, and an intelligent one, as you well know. But he doesn't have Daniel Conlon's ambitions. He doesn't have the charisma, or his genius for strategy. O'Donnell merely maintains the paramilitary organization that Conlon created. If we'd left a man like Daniel Conlon to his own devices he could have built a military force capable of taking over the country."

Gibbs nodded reasonably. "He almost became strong enough to shake off the CIA's influence in Colombia."

"Yes, that too."

"You know, a good head for strategy is great, but it doesn't make you into a mindreader. Gray could see the writing on the wall, and assumed the CIA would side with the cartel. Because the CIA wants to maintain the status quo, work the game and earn more influence. Obviously he was right about that. And the kid just assumed that I would side with you too, or get out of your way." Gibbs laughed a little, the sound fond and strange. And oddly aggressive in the close, quiet room. "That's the thing about being young. Doesn't matter how smart you are - you don't recognize people with no interest in the status quo, with no loyalty to the way things are. Not even when you're tripping over them. You don't know the value of it," Gibbs finished softly.

"What are you suggesting? That you'll form your own alliance with the cartel? That you'll form one with O'Donnell?" Holdner smiled cooly.

"Why not?"

Gibbs leaned forward a little in the silence that followed and grinned, aware that in this context it would give him the air of a lunatic. "I don't have anything to lose. And his allies," he gestured toward himself, "call him Dex."


	58. The Bargain

**Chapter 58: The Bargain**

There was nothing more satisfying, Gibbs reflected, than shocking an agent of the CIA. He stood up and grabbed his coat.

"Let's go for a drive," he said. "No one's house is this secure."

The other man frowned up at him. "I'm supposed to believe that I'm going to be more secure driving somewhere with you?"

"My team knows where I am," Gibbs shrugged. Well. They could obviously figure out where he'd gone, with enough motivation. "If either one of us gets killed they'll know who to blame."

"Oh. Reassuring." But Holdner picked up his coat and followed him out the door.

They drove in silence and ended up settling into a couple of metal chairs outside a deserted Starbucks.

"Have you heard from Kort?"

"No," Gibbs said shortly. "Was going to ask if you knew where he was. He isn't returning my calls."

Holdner sighed. "Our agents are supposed to be self-reliant. But that man takes it to extremes."

Gibbs threw him a derisive look. "What'd you expect? A picket fence and Little League games?"

"No," Holdner said evenly. "I expected this. It's still irritating."

Gibbs smirked into his coffee cup. "Bet you didn't expect him to take the kids' side over yours." Shocking lack of self-interest. Same as Gibbs' own.

"Kort has always been difficult to predict. Your own determination to strike Londono at all costs is more surprising. I know you don't mind risking your life for your cause, Gibbs. But your career – your team – that does surprise me."

Gibbs sipped his burnt coffee. "Londono is unfinished business," he said simply.

"And your agents?"

"It'll only be a risk if it doesn't work. Besides, my team knows where I am. Never said they know what I'm doing."

Holdner cast him a dubious look, which – fair enough. Ignorance would only protect them as long as they stayed ignorant. His team would have to be dumber than he knew them to be not to figure it out. And of course, at that point, it would be next to impossible to keep them from getting involved.

"So," Holdner said. "You'd like me to believe that you would work with O'Donnell in order to take out the cartel? Even Kort refused to work with that man."

Gibbs stared into the bitter liquid in his hands. "It was made clear to me today that the kid is already working with him."

Or just working him. Using O'Donnell's ambition and his insanity to get whatever protection Gray could from him. A dangerous game. And an ugly one.

If it had to be Gibbs or the kid, Gibbs would work with the man. He would gladly use him to bring down the cartel. He would call it a win.

And then he would kill him.

"I'll do what I have to do to bring them all down. All of them," Gibbs emphasized. "If that means I have to use O'Donnell to prevent an alliance between Londono and the CIA - an agreement that would _protect_ the cartel - that's what it means." He looked up from his coffee to watch the evening traffic cruise by, late commuters on their way home. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't force me into that position."

"I already told Kort we wouldn't stand in your way."

"Yeah, you'll let us do your work while you hedge your bets. That's generous. But if we're going to find them all before O'Donnell and Londono set up their next moves or go underground we also need your resources."

Holdner sighed. "What, exactly?"

"Satellites, records and hours. And the hidden base in Colombia that we moved out of before."

The other man raised an eyebrow at the outrageous request. Gibbs knew it was outrageous. He didn't care.

"What about teams?"

"We'll use our own."

"Don't trust me, Gibbs?"

"No."

"Huh. And we get a say in the new management? If the Agency does blow off this opportunity to worm its way in with Londono - well, we'll need some guarantee of that."

It turned his stomach to even think about the next generation. Gibbs drank more of the offensive coffee and forced himself to shrug. He'd already proven once today that he had trouble picking his battles, just like his CO had taken such pleasure in pointing out, over endless push-ups, thirty years ago. No need to go overboard. "That's up to Kort, with Gray's approval. Kort told me he likes the informant, to start."

"Hanlan?"

"Yeah."

"Hm." Holdner mulled that over. "Well, he may be easy to manipulate. Kort's already lured him out once. But it would be better if Gray assumed a role in the new organization as well."

Gibbs almost dropped his coffee. Almost. "You're out of your mind," he said harshly.

"No," Holdner gazed at him tiredly. "I'm not. But I understand that he does not want to return to that life. If it wasn't so inconvenient I'd say it was commendable."

Gibbs just stared at him. It was never going to happen. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other, either.

Holdner waved a hand, a forget it.

"We have a good shot," Gibbs said quietly. "We can change the game. You're never going to get a better offer."

"The surveillance is good," Holdner said. "I'll give you that." He studied Gibbs closely. "If I can give you what you ask for, you understand that you'll be out in the cold? If anything goes wrong you'll have no protection. Even from the Agency, if they decide you're in the way of cleanup. The price would be significant."

Significant. Compared to what? To the people he'd already lost to cartels? To the cost Gray and Cassie and all the rest of them already paid? There was nothing he would not give to end that, and still call it a bargain.

"Yeah. Know how it works."

"What about your team?"

"What about them?"

Another mighty sigh. "The same rules apply. If I were you I'd get them out, steer them clear if you can convince them to go. But they're your people."

Holdner stood up, tossed his full coffee, and headed toward the car.

**x**

Gibbs didn't know about the new ritual.

The only reason there was a new ritual to begin with was that Gibbs had been accused of murder and taken to Mexico, and then to Colombia, and the team had _somewhat_ lost its collective mind. So of course Gibbs didn't know about it.

When their boss left so abruptly after that charming little video chat with Kort's boss the team decided, unanimously and without discussion, to search the building from top to bottom for Gray. They found nothing. Then they requested a sweep of the Yard. Nada, except to figure out that Gray had slipped through security with a hundred other kids on a school field trip to the Navy Museum.

After that they studied the thin information streaming to McGee's computer from the CIA. That got them nothing too, but had the added benefit of making them angry.

Ziva had exhausted all of her inter-agency contacts on Colombian cartels and Declan O'Donnell months ago. After reaffirming that they were in fact exhausted, she joined the rest of the team as they read through local PD reports of unusual activity. That also got them nothing, and to add insult to injury was boring.

They'd been shooed from Abby's lab multiple times and finally locked out. Ducky gave them the silent treatment, Ducky-style - which included a good bit of glaring - until they slunk away. Finally they found themselves sitting at their desks, watching enviously as other teams were sent out to chase down criminals who were actually possible to find. Closing time came and went, but they couldn't go home. Partly because Gibbs had dropped off the face of the planet without dismissing them. Partly because Gray and the rest of the kids were out there, and O'Donnell and all of the other bad guys were out there too. And while they obviously couldn't do anything about it right at the moment, they couldn't just go home and let it _be_, either.

It was after hours and the ME's initial exams were done. At that point Tony had invoked the new ritual, and they'd trooped down to autopsy to pull out the ME's bottle of Scotch. Gibbs found them there a half hour later, sitting in a collection of swivel chairs around Ducky's desk, talking quietly and staring at a tall bottle of McCallan.

"It's the names," McGee was saying. "There's too many of them."

Tony was sitting backwards in a chair, hugging the backrest, chin on his hands. "Out of all the fucked up stuff that could be bothering you right now, it's nicknames that you find the most bothersome."

"Yeah." McGee had kicked his feet out to slouch down into his chair. Now he squinted up into the obnoxiously bright lights, face set like he was about to say something profound. "It's the tipping point. They've all got a regular name and then a nickname and then a name that people actually call them - Declan and Dex and Diablo and Cassandra and Cop and Natalia -

"But it is understandable," Ziva said, "to want a new name for a new life. Many cultures acknowledge a new beginning with a new name."

"You've got a new life," Tim yawned. "You didn't get a new name."

"That is not true," Ziva sniffed.

The boys' heads rolled toward her. Waiting for the big reveal.

"Gibbs calls me Ziver. Tony calls me Ninja-Chick, on occasion. And _you_ have called me Probie." She smiled, proud.

Apparently she approved of all the new names.

"Those aren't exactly - "

"Yes," Ziva said firmly. "They are."

"Don't argue with the ninja, McGoo. It's not McSmart."

"It's not the same," Tim insisted. "They even have a nickname for _Kort_. It's needlessly confusing." Tim's feet flopped back and forth, slowly, while he continued to ponder the ceiling. "At least they haven't given us nicknames. I wouldn't even know if they - "

Ziva chuckled darkly.

"What?"

"I would be very surprised, _Elf Lord_," she stressed, "if they have not given us names of their own. It is their habit to use alternate names, for security I am sure. Those kinds of habits - the kind you grow up with - they do not change quickly." She smiled mysteriously, probably remembering some amusing Israeli high-security family moment.

Tony swiveled his chair back and forth. "That is so true."

Ziva and Tim turned slowly to face him, narrowing their eyes. "What do you know?"

He grinned. "Nothing I'm ever going to repeat in Gibbs' lifetime."

"Ah," Ziva smirked. "They have given the silver-haired fox a new title."

Tony smiled innocently. "Who could say? But I do know the best way to keep a secret, Zee-vah." Rule #4. Keep it to yourself.

They fell silent for a few moments.

"Rituals are okay," Tim said out of the blue. "But this doesn't have the one clear benefit of drinking too much. No dreams. Unless I get drunk between the next time I sleep and now, I'm gonna dream about heads." If he was lucky. And if he was unlucky -

"Not just dreams, probie. Try having a drink in mixed company sometime. You just might figure out how the rest of the human race loses its sexual inhibitions." Tony, of course.

Tim grinned. "You have sexual inhibitions?"

Dinozzo opened his mouth gleefully. Ziva stepped in before he could share. "Please do _not_ answer that. As I am not actually drunk it is all too likely that I will end up remembering it in the morning."

Another pause, until Ziva snapped her fingers. "Drinking gives you courage as well. Yes? It is called - French courage!"

Tony snickered helplessly. Tim corrected her. "Dutch courage."

"I like 'French courage,' actually - "

"Regardless of nationality," Ziva rolled her eyes. "Drinking to excess can lower all kinds of inhibitions."

Silence again. They looked out over the row of murder victims. "Drug use has a similar effect, of course," she continued absently. "That is probably why Gray and the other children were given narcotics when they fought with the cartel."

McGee's eyes wandered back to the untouched bottle of Scotch. It suddenly looked sinister. "Unless he was on something today I don't think Gray needs any help in that department. Talking to O'Donnell didn't seem to bother him all that much." McGee had the faintly irritated tone of voice that he latched onto when he didn't understand.

Ziva huffed listlessly, her eyes on the shiny doors that kept the corpses cold. "Gray was forced to work with that man, McGee. To survive him. You cannot show fear to a man like O'Donnell. It is never wise to show fear to anyone who has power over you."

Tony swiveled in his chair to study her blatantly. She felt it; her eyes skittered toward him and then away again.

"So, what, you thank him for killing your mother instead? To prove how fearless you are?" McGee. Oblivious. "The man who tortured and - " he stumbled as his brain finally caught up to his mouth. But he had enough respect for her to finish. " - hurt so many people? Hurt you?"

"O'Donnell is a powerful man in that world, McGee. Powerful enough to provide some protection, if he could be convinced to do so. Only Gray can know if the price of his protection was worth it."

McGee frowned. "But Gray's not _in_ that world anymore - "

"Come on, Tim. O'Donnell delivered his mother's head to our doorstep. He won't be safe from the dirtbag until the dirtbag is dead."

"If any one of you is drunk I'm going to kick all of your asses."

Tony stood up so fast his chair rocketed back and bumped dangerously into the closest autopsy table. Dargas' head, exposed brain and all, wobbled on its perch.

Gibbs stopped next to it, observing as it didn't quite tip over onto the floor. "You almost earned yourself dissection from Ducky, Dinozzo. On top of the ass kicking."

"Yes, boss. And no, boss. We're not drunk. I mean, drinking. We're not either of those things, boss."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Where is Ducky."

Tony pointed to the ME's office. "Typing his report. But he told us he has nothing significant to add. I mean, the findings in his initial report are pretty much the same as the findings of the ME examinations for the other assassinations carried out in this exact same style, in Mexico and Colombia and now here, in DC. But he's, uh, going to finish more detailed exams tomorrow. And he's still waiting on some results from Abby."

"Come on," Gibbs said, and swept out. The rest of the team scrambled after him, McGee hastily burying the untouched bottle back in the desk drawer they'd taken it out of.

"Got a call from Fornell," Gibbs said as they approached the elevator. "They found the bodies of their four missing FBI agents and our two Marines in a rented cabin in Virginia. The FBI dead match the agents that you photographed chasing the kids with O'Donnell. Brown's team is headed out there to work the scene for NCIS. Fornell's sending photographs to your account anyway, McGee. Head to the lab and see if you and Abby can pull anything on O'Donnell's previous or current whereabouts based on those images."

McGee took off for the lab, pleased with his impossible mission.

Tony and Ziva stepped with Gibbs onto the elevator. "A group of hunters up there were suspicious of all the automatic fire they heard coming from the place over the weekend and got a plate number from an SUV that was going in and out. I want you to check it against traffic cams around the Yard's west gate -" Gibbs frowned as they emerged from the elevator and walked toward the dark, empty pen. Because it wasn't quite empty - there was a figure bent over his desk.

"Abby? You got something?"

Abby popped up, startled, and looked at him uncertainly.

"Abs?" His eyes ran over her quickly, settled on a couple of mild blotches on her neck. They wouldn't have been noticeable, except her skin was so pale. "Something happen?"

"Um . . . no?"

He waited. And stared.

"Well, just, I startled someone?" she tried, and waved a hand. "So, you know, I'm a little . . . startled."

Gibbs kept staring. She'd always been a bad liar when it came to Gibbs.

"I thought maybe one of you could be taking a power nap," she said tentatively, "you know like you do sometimes, under your desks, so I sort of tiptoed in? Except he was startled. He's sorry about it, believe me," she nodded. "Even though he doesn't need to be because, well you know, that's not something you can control, right? I mean he left really fast but he looked really sorry." She gestured behind her. "Sorry, Gibbs," she whispered.

But Gibbs was already looking at the screen, showing a close up of one of the photographs McGee took at the gate that morning. It was Jane Doe's head, larger than life, set off on a shiny black backdrop of asphalt.

"That is not the way McGee left the screen," Ziva said.

"I didn't do it! I came up to tell Gibbs about the test results and he was standing here flipping through the photos and I didn't realize who he was - I mean I couldn't see his face and I came up behind him . . . "

"You okay, Abby?"

"Yes," she said. And then immediately, "Don't tell McGee. Um, Gray was just surprised," she reminded them. "It's fine."

"Yeah. Fine. Because a startled, angry assassin is completely harmless. How could he still be here? We searched this place inside out." Tony looked around the darkened bullpen like he expected Gray to be hiding under one of the desks. "Should we look for him?"

Gibbs shook his head and reached tiredly for the remote, clicking the power button to turn it off. "He's not here."

"How do you - "

"He got what he came for, Dinnozo. He's long gone."

Tony frowned at the dark screen. "But how the hell did he - oh. He watched McGee do his thing, didn't he."

Ziva nodded, remembering as well.

"He said to tell you that you were right, Gibbs." Abby stared at him. "Do you know what that means?"

Gibbs sat down in his chair with a sigh. "What exactly did he say, Abby?"

"Um . . . well I said sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, and he didn't say anything. And so I asked him if he was looking for the team, cause they must be around here somewhere, and I could call you if he wanted me to and I was sure you'd come right away if he needed anything. And he said you're Abby, and I said you're Gray, and he asked if I was okay and I said yeah. And that's when he started to leave but first he said 'you can tell Gibbs he was right.'"

She looked at him expectantly and Gibbs looked back - expressionless. Abby couldn't exactly tell if he didn't know, or if he just didn't want to say, or if he was busy thinking . . . with an inscrutable Gibbs there were a lot of possibilities.

Ziva broke the silence. "His mother," she said, and tilted her head toward the blackened screen. "I think Gibbs was right about that. He was not sure that Gray would be able to identify her."

Abby's mouth opened into a little 'o.'

Tony stared at the floor, running his hand through his hair impatiently. "Maybe we're looking at this wrong. Maybe he isn't sure about the ID because it isn't really her. I mean, O'Donnell would lie about that, right? Of course he would. And that's all we're really going on - "

Gibbs' eyes dropped to the note Abby had written. _Gibbs Lab NOW._

"What'd you come up here to tell me, Abby?"

She looked at him sadly. All these years she'd found answers for him, some of the worst answers the world had to offer anyone. And still she never spared herself - never turned it off. He didn't know how she bore it. "I rushed the DNA test," she said. "I got a match." Her eyes flicked around to Ziva and Tony and finally settled back on Gibbs. "I haven't gotten an actual ID yet. I don't think she's in the system. But the mitochondrial DNA - Jane Doe is his mother, Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "Anything else?"

Of course he knew there was. He always did. Abby fidgeted for a few seconds.

"I ran him against every possible database when you first brought in his blood, Gibbs. And - well, like I said before, I didn't even get a partial match. But that's because it wasn't close enough." She nodded nervously. "But Gray did have a relative in the system. It's just that his mom is a much closer - well, they all share either the same maternal genetic markers - "

Abby and McGee. In league to drive him crazy. "Abs. The point?"

Another quick nod. "Ernesto Calera?"

If he'd let it, Gibbs' heart would have sunk. "Yeah? What about him?"

"Interpol entered his DNA into the system after he was killed in '92." After Gibbs killed him. "You know, so agencies could see if it tied back to any open cases." Abby's voice went a little gentle. "He's Jane Doe's father, Gibbs. Gray's grandfather."

"You sure, Abby?"

"Yes. The samples are all really good, pure. I'm positive, Gibbs."

Ziva shook her head. "I thought the rest of the Calera family was wiped out in the fighting that erupted after the brothers were killed."

"They were," Gibbs said. He'd gotten a report about it. He remembered how he'd skimmed it. How he'd thrown it away. He hadn't cared, plain and simple, and there was nothing he could have done about it anyway. "Gray's mother must have been an illegitimate child. Or hidden somehow."

"Do you think - " Ziva paused, and continued delicately. "Well. It is possible that he does not know - "

"He knows." Tony was standing in front of Gibbs' desk, staring distractedly at the far wall. "And he knows what it means."

Ziva shook her head. "What do you - ?"

"Family land. Remember? In Colombia - he said _Rangers don't come onto family land_." Tony looked at Gibbs significantly, and Gibbs straightened. He remembered. He remembered the kid holding his rifle, staring at it. _Is this what you used to kill the Caleras_ . . .

"I thought it was weird," Tony said distantly. "But he was already mad at me so I didn't - and then I thought maybe it was a language thing, some weird phrasing, like Ziva does. But it wasn't a language thing - it's not weird. That's what it is, family land." He looked at Gibbs again. "And I bet any surviving relatives of the Caleras disappeared pretty fast, if there are even any others left. They ran before they could be taken out."

Gibbs rubbed his forehead. "Abby. McGee's in your lab. I want you two to dig up anything you can find on the legal ownership of that land. I want to know exactly what Londono's claim to it is. Quietly, you got me?" She nodded, wide-eyed. "Go."

"You two," he nodded at Dinozzo and Ziva. "This is the license - " Gibbs broke off with a curse and scribbled down the rest of the plate number silently as his cell started to ring.

"Go," he glared at them, and opened his phone. "Gibbs."

That was all he said. But after a few moments he picked up the pen again and started writing. When he ended the call he immediately dialed again, taking phone and paper with him as he emerged from his desk and headed up the stairs.

"McGee," Tony heard him say, "MTAC, now."

When his steps had faded and the door to MTAC clicked shut Tony raised his eyes from his screen. "What do we think that's about?"

Ziva glanced at Tony and then up the stairs before returning to her own computer. "I think that everything he has done since he arrived here this morning has had only one purpose."

Tony nodded. Finding O'Donnell.

"I have the camera at the north end of the block. You will take the south?"

"Yes ma'am."

Upstairs, in an empty communications room, Gibbs sat down and had a little chat with McGee. Because Holdner had secured the CIA resources they needed to do this job. They talked it through - the risk, the price - before they went to work. Hunting down the devil.


	59. Truthiness

**Chapter 59: Truthiness**

McGee was immersed in another world. Ignoring Gibbs entirely, maneuvering around the CIA's systems like a kid let loose in a candy store.

Gibbs reminded him of the maps that the surveillance teams in Colombia had sent in, pinpointing locations of activity. McGee added the intel from the government flight that they knew for sure O'Donnell was on when he flew into DC, and the few extra details that AK coughed up about Calera shipments coming into the States. Every scrap of information they had.

Gibbs' phone buzzed an hour later. It was Tony.

Gibbs silenced the phone and leaned in toward McGee - the move that always made Tim feel like the boss could peer into his brain and read his thoughts, like they were printed on the back of his eyeballs.

"This enough, McGee?"

Tim's eyes widened comically. Gibbs never asked if it was _enough_. He ordered Tim to do things, and Tim scrambled to do them. Gibbs didn't seem to care if any of it was possible. The fact that impossible events would occasionally bend to suit Gibbs' whims was half the magic.

"I don't know," Tim said. "O'Donnell's obviously aware of our surveillance methods and knows how to avoid them. We lost him all the time in South Africa and Colombia and coverage here is practically nonexistent compared to what we have over there . . . " Officially the CIA was prohibited from monitoring the United States at all.

McGee trailed off, and the boss continued to look at him with one of his uncanny Gibbs looks. This one said he wouldn't be averse to opening up Tim's head and taking more satisfactory answers out manually.

Gibbs grunted and stood up. "Get me whatever you can get, McGee. I want an update on your progress every hour."

He walked out, leaving Tim alone in the humming, blinking room. As he pushed through the heavy door Gibbs glanced back at his youngest agent. McGee's dark figure looked small, alone in front of the huge bank of glowing monitors.

Gibbs smirked. McGee had done a lot more with less in the past, but not exactly like a kid in a candy store. More like Ziva let loose at a gun show.

Gibbs wouldn't want to be the man trying to hide from McGee.

**x**

"What of we got?"

"Got a bead on that plate, Gibbs. They passed by the southwest cam at 0510 this morning, took the 395 to the I-95 South. I lost them when they ditched the Interstate." Dinozzo gestured to his computer screen and Gibbs leaned in to see the route, painstakingly picked out of footage from cameras at intersections and tollbooths, snaking through a map of northern Virginia.

That route would take them toward the cabin Fornell's team had discovered.

"And we've got Kort in Interrogation Two."

Gibbs turned to stare at Dinozzo. His second returned it and then some.

"Kort ordered Hanlan up from the pens. I put a guard outside the door," Tony elaborated.

Gibbs nodded as he turned away, heading for the elevator and the interrogation suite. "Get that route to McGee, Dinozzo, and keep working the SUV's movements."

They had to figure out how O'Donnell left if they were ever going to trace where he went.

Gibbs might have stopped to observe the "interview" before he broke it up. But he didn't bother. When he waved the guard aside and opened the door Kort and Hanlan were sitting side by side, shuffling through a stack of photographs.

Kort took one look at him and rose without a word to join Gibbs in the hall, crowding the agent out of his own interrogation room, pulling the door shut behind them.

Kort looked tired. His suit had seen too many hours and his face was hollow, lined with fatigue. But Gibbs' team looked the same way.

When Gibbs didn't say anything Kort jerked his head impatiently back toward the room. "You want something, Gibbs? Other than wasting my time?"

"You've been off the grid for eighteen hours. I want to know where the hell you've been. And what you've got to show for it."

Gibbs waited for the angry response.

It never came.

"I had a few things to take care of," Kort said calmly. "I came in as soon as it was possible."

Gibbs stepped close and got into his face.

But Kort only looked away. The once unshakeable arrogance had been sucked right out of him. Gibbs stood there staring until Kort leaned back into the wall, an exhausted man, and caved. "When I received your first message I went to see that the kids were alright. Safe."

Kort paused, and a curl of dread whipped through Gibbs' gut. "And?"

"Cass and the others assigned to the first safehouse are fine. Gray and . . . . his group are gone."

Gibbs stiffened. "Gray isn't gone, he was here most of the day. You think someone got to his brother?" And Kort was just telling them _now_?

Kort looked blankly down the hall, staring at nothing. "I don't mean to imply they're in trouble. They've packed and left, the ones from the second house. Gray probably moved them before he came in."

"And you spent the day looking for them."

"Yes."

But - "Gray said he knew where you were."

Kort smiled thinly. "No doubt."

Gray knew Kort was looking for the second house?

"You think he didn't want you to find it? Why hide them from you?"

Kort hesitated, but answered. "He's angry," he said simply.

Gibbs leaned slowly against the opposite wall, trying to read the strangeness in the other man. "So you don't know where they are."

"I'm sure they're somewhere no one will ever find them." Kort said, still calm. "Myself included."

"Welcome to my world."

Kort waved that away.

It was true that Gibbs had never really pushed tracking Gray and the others down - not before, anyway. Now he folded his arms across his chest. "O'Donnell called Dinozzo's line today. He spoke to Gray."

Kort nodded. "Cass told me."

So Gray had talked to her sometime after that. Good.

"Kid also saw photographs of the crime scene - of his mother. We matched their DNA."

Kort nodded again, not at all surprised. He didn't actually look like he was paying much attention.

Gibbs shifted irritably. He would start yelling if he thought it would do any good. But he wasn't sure Kort was in any condition to notice.

"He left here upset and alone. And he's armed," Gibbs continued, pointing out the obvious. "We need to find him."

Kort finally looked directly at him, seeming to consider the words. "Do we? He's not a danger to himself, Gibbs, that's not who he is. He won't even risk doing anything that could get him locked up, not beyond what we can get him out of. There's still Sean."

Gibbs rolled his shoulders, thinking of Abby, wide-eyed, fading marks at her throat. He remembered Dinozzo in that bloody clearing, frozen at the end of the kid's gun. Gray had teetered on the edge in that moment. Gibbs almost lost both of them.

"I don't think he's in control right now, Trent." The understatement of the century.

"Well, I don't know how to find him."

There had to be something. Gibbs stared at him, waiting.

But Kort just looked back at him, eyes blank. "I spent the day looking for them," he said finally. "I didn't find anything. If Gray decides to come back then we will know where he is. Not before." He turned toward the interrogation room. Ending the conversation.

"_If _he decides to come back?" Gibbs said sharply.

Kort paused and shrugged. "He hoped Agency resources could help him find his mother. Now she's gone there's no reason to fight the cartel, to maintain ties to the CIA. To any of us. He could take Sean and disappear."

Gibbs frowned. "He doesn't need to contact you? What about documents? Money?"

"He needed me to enter the country and establish himself here. But he has all of the documentation he could ask for now, and the connections to get more if he needs it. He has more money than you or I ever will."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Gray skimmed from the cartel?"

Kort just looked at him. Of course he had.

"How much?"

"More than enough to disappear for a very long time."

Gibbs studied Kort's neutral gaze and finally pegged it. Acceptance. _Defeat_. If the kids saw that - hell, if his own team saw it. Gibbs surged forward, jerked Kort away from the door and shoved him hard into the wall.

Kort didn't resist. Didn't react at all.

Gibbs leaned in close and whispered into his ear. "I am going to kill O'Donnell," he said. "I'm going to take out Londono, too, and whoever else is a threat to those kids. Just like I told them I would. And then I'm going to accompany Gray and Sean to their mother's funeral." Gibbs leaned in closer, pushing Kort back harder, his forearm pressing into the other man's throat. "Now you can commit to the same," he whispered, "or you can get the hell out of here before I add you to the list. Your choice."

Gibbs straightened up abruptly, relieving the pressure he'd placed on Kort's lungs, patting the rumpled lapels of the thousand dollar suit back into place.

"I dug her grave." Kort said steadily. As if he hadn't just been tossed around. "I didn't get her out. He's not going to want me at her funeral. Or anywhere else."

"I don't care," Gibbs said simply. And he didn't. There were times when figuring out the right thing to do was difficult - the hardest part of the job, even. But this wasn't one of them.

Kort shook his head slightly. "If he's willing to hide now he'll be safer anyway. Not involved. We can take the time - "

Goddamn. Why did he have to make everything so complicated?

"Look," Gibbs said forcefully. "You said you wanted to help them survive. You said that's what you want _me_ to do."

Kort waited, wary.

"For fuck's sake! If we screw this up he _won't_ survive it. If we let O'Donnell slip away he'll never trust us again. He may never trust _anyone_ again. I told him we would get these bastards and that's damn well what we're going to do."

The other agent looked him over carefully, like he was trying to decipher that. "The surveillance coming in on the cartel is good," Kort said slowly. "But if Gray's not involved we only have Hanlan from the inside. He's been in South Africa most of the last few years. He can't give us everything we'll need. And O'Donnell - he - " Kort looked away, and Gibbs had the impression the man was struggling not to vomit. "If we kill him we'll only alert Londono to an operation against the cartel. He shouldn't be a priority." Kort's eyes wandered back to Gibbs again. "I don't know that this cartel should be a priority at all. It's unlikely they'll come after you now, you know. And the children with Cassie will be safe enough if we relocate them. They know how to hide -"

Jesus. Gibbs looked up at the ceiling. He searched for the words, and felt his rage drain away, replaced by something flat and heavy. He held up a hand to get Kort to stop, though he didn't really know what to say. Gibbs didn't often try to persuade people to his point of view. He always just did what he needed to do to get the job done. Then he walked away, and let the record stand for itself.

But that clearly wasn't going to work here. They'd been having this argument, or one like it, for months.

"Maybe. Rationally, you're probably right. They could hide, disappear, and physically they'd be alright. But this is a different kind of safe, Kort." One he was beginning to realize Kort had never known, or had simply forgotten somewhere along the line. A safety based in people. In family. It wasn't about what you could get away with, what they could all _survive_. It was about what they would stand up for, what they would protect absolutely. What they had to _win_. "We need to do this for them. You have to trust me on that."

Gibbs paused, but Kort just looked at him and waited, expression flat.

It dawned on him then. Gibbs finally got it. The understanding felt like cracking a case, as if all the pieces of some strange puzzle suddenly fit, revealing a truth that had been waiting under the surface all along. Kort would do it. He might not understand, but he did trust Gibbs. He had from the beginning. Kort placed his faith in them all, utterly - Gibbs just hadn't seen it.

He wondered in that moment if he might have forgotten something too, somewhere along the line. Because right at this second it looked like Kort was better at trusting people than Gibbs was.

"Hanlan worked with O'Donnell for years," Kort said, ignoring Gibbs' stunned face. He turned again toward the interrogation room. "He may be able to give us something on O'Donnell's current location."

"Kort."

The man paused and looked back to Gibbs.

Gibbs had an urge to lay it all out. "The little girl the other night - the one who stayed close to Sean." Gibbs watched Kort stiffen, subtly, the tiniest of tells. "She with the ones that disappeared today?"

"Yes," Kort said reluctantly, still moving toward the door.

"What's her name?" he pressed.

Kort stopped. He didn't look at Gibbs. But he didn't hesitate either. "They call her Bee."

Gibbs smiled slightly at that. _Bee_.

"Is she another one? A Calera?" he asked soberly.

"No."

"She related to Londono somehow?"

"No."

Gibbs waited. But Kort didn't say anything more. And Gibbs didn't push it. "Good," he said simply.

Kort's eyes went to his for just a moment, startled. Then his hand tightened around the steel handle of the door, and he pushed back into the room.

**x**

For the next week they chased the cartel.

Kort rarely left the building, and at the same time barely spoke to the rest of them. He was focused, surly, and seemed determined to work around the clock.

By the fourth day Gibbs was happy enough with their progress to put his own team back on fairly regular hours. They sifted through Colombian surveillance and listened to Kort's endless, painstaking conversations with Hanlan, as well as the occasional more volatile interrogations with the subordinates that Kort had arrested. Gibbs went in to question Hanlan every once in awhile, just to switch it up.

On the sixth night Gibbs made his way down to Ducky's, one of McGee's gadgets in his hand. It had a recording of Gray's conversation with O'Donnell on it, a record McGee swore up and down could not possibly be hacked.

Ducky was waiting for him, Palmer sent home for the day. Gibbs pulled up a stool, set the little speaker unit on Ducky's desk, and hit play. Duck listened once through, frowning. Then he poked at the gadget until it played again.

The third time he paused it periodically, taking notes. The fourth time he reviewed his notes, and added to them. And the fifth time. And the sixth.

Gibbs could do patience. When he thought it was worth it he could endure just about anything.

Halfway through the eleventh playback Duck turned the recording off.

"Well," he said. "That was disturbing."

And then he got up to make tea.

Gibbs sat with his arms folded across his chest, tracking him with his eyes. Waiting.

A few minutes later Ducky shoved a teacup and the bottle of McCallan toward Gibbs and sat back down.

Gibbs frowned, studying the Scotch placed in front of him without moving to touch it. "I came down here the other day and my team was sitting around this bottle like it was a shrine." He raised an eyebrow. "But they weren't drinking it."

"Hm." Ducky watched him keenly, wondering if the distraction was for his own benefit or Gibbs'. "A habit they picked up when they lost track of you last May. Anthony seemed to think that sitting and relaxing around a bottle of alcohol would provide some relief from the stress, even when they didn't want to risk impairing their judgement by drinking. Or risk leaving the building at all, really," he added drily. "As it turns out, Tony believes very strongly in the restorative power of the imagination. _I_ don't imagine that's much of a surprise."

Gibbs snorted.

"Unconventional," Ducky smiled. "But he was able to keep them from slipping into despair. Even when it seemed unlikely that we would ever see you again."

Gibbs nodded. No parents, no siblings. A series of boarding schools. Being able to cheer himself up was probably one of Dinozzo's best tricks.

"He'll be a good team leader," Gibbs said casually. "If he ever wants to be one."

"He is rather attached to you, and to following wherever you go," Ducky acknowledged. He sipped his tea and looked Gibbs over sternly. "Luckily for all of us, it would seem. You most of all."

Silence in an autopsy wasn't like anywhere else. The surfaces were too hard and the air too cool. The quiet seemed to reverberate and grow.

No wonder Ducky talked to himself.

"He reminded me recently that he raised himself," Gibbs said abruptly. "Basically."

Duck looked startled. If anything, Tony liked to remind his colleagues that he was a hotshot who went out with a lot of beautiful women - not that he'd once been a lonely little boy. And Gibbs didn't tend to talk about the past at all, his own or anyone else's.

"Kind of like Gray," Gibbs added.

"Ah." Ducky sat back in his chair, stitching the threads of the conversation together. "So Tony has latched on to you, and now you listen to this recording and wonder if Gray formed a similar attachment to O'Donnell?"

"Has he?"

"No, I think not."

Gibbs waited. But Ducky was always careful with his words precisely when Gibbs least wanted him to be.

"How do you know that, Duck?"

"Gray seems to show some . . . connection to this man, and now you're worried that the conversation was entirely honest. That he really did have a connection. But it wasn't honest. Not at all."

Gibbs stared at Ducky, urging him on.

The ME glanced at his notes. "O'Donnell asked a question first. _Who else is there?_ And Gray answered truthfully, didn't he?" He looked up at Gibbs.

Gibbs nodded. "He was fishing for our locations. He called Dinozzo's line, not mine. But he knew that if I was around I would probably end up taking over."

"He wanted to know if your team was in the building, if you were still looking for him and would try to trace the call, or if you had already found a clue to his whereabouts and perhaps left to hunt him down. But O'Donnell didn't have to resort to subterfuge, did he, because Gray told him straight off that you were all present."

"Yeah."

Ducky grinned. "Gray is not so straightforward with you."

Gibbs ran a hand over his hair and sighed. "No kidding."

"As far as we know they were both absolutely, technically honest with each other," Ducky said. "Even when the boy could not possibly have wanted to be. Even when it was absurd to be." Duck looked back down at his notes. "O'Donnell: _Your mother's death was necessary. Do you feel badly?_ Gray: _Yes._"

Gibbs shook his head. "So you think it was an act, because it was so absurd? What about Stockholm, or - " he waved a hand " - some kind of conditioning. The kid was under this guy's control for a long time, Duck. Years."

Ducky looked at him shrewdly. "Perhaps he was. But Gray is under his own control now. To a remarkable degree."

Gibbs blew out a breath. He had thought that at first, too. Hoped it, really. If Duck was right, then Gray was just playing O'Donnell all through that call. He'd definitely gotten information out of him. Information that no one else could get, probably, about the way their agents and his mother died. Taken from that point of view, as just an exercise in gathering intel, the call was worth it.

But Gray had been gone for six days now. And Gibbs wasn't sure anymore if gathering intel was all it was. "How do you know that, Duck?"

The doctor went back to his notes. "Gray admits to leading Tony to the camp where you were held, and to killing eight men in Colombia. O'Donnell asks if Gray will tell him something amusing. Gray tells him about a man who gave himself away due to his own terror, and his prayers. O'Donnell is delighted with the story."

Ducky looked at him significantly. Gibbs cocked his head. "You think Gray made that up?"

"No. I think he gave O'Donnell_ exactly_ what he wanted to hear."

"A story about fear," Gibbs said slowly.

Ducky nodded, leaning forward. "A story about _showing_ fear. Giving a psychopath what he wants is a dangerous business, Jethro. O'Donnell clearly delights in the pain of others. We know from the scars the boy carries that the man deliberately, physically hurt him. He purposely taunts Tony with that knowledge. _Not a blemish on him_, he said. And then later he asks Gray about it directly, when he says, _Did they leave any marks?_"

Gibbs nodded.

"But Gray does not get angry. He doesn't seem to react at all. When he tells Gray that his mother is dead, O'Donnell also says very deliberately that he knows Gray loved his mother. _I know you have fond memories of her_. And Gray even plays it up. He sounds very young when he talks about her: _They won't let me see_ _. . . They think that I won't recognize her_. He is deliberately pointing out his own powerlessness, Jethro."

"Yeah, alright. He admitted that her death hurt him."

"Yes," Ducky said gravely. "He has learned that O'Donnell enjoys the pain of others. Control over others. So Gray gives him exactly that. His own pain. His own loss of power in this situation. O'Donnell goes on to insult women and Gray allows it, even tries to play along. But - and this is the key - he does not play along very well."

Gibbs nodded. "I know Gray's a better actor than that, if he wants to be. But I'm not sure that he would be good enough. O'Donnell was an interrogator. He would be able to spot a lie."

"I'm sure Gray is an excellent liar. But O'Donnell enjoyed making him uncomfortable, and so Gray gave him that. Gray did not try to cover it up. O'Donnell recalls killing a prostitute, linking it to the murder of the boy's mother, and presses Gray to acknowledge the connection as well. The man also enjoys mocking the boy's faith, or at least his mother's faith. _Still going to church to pray for your soul? . . . I have your mother's cross here. I was tempted to melt it down . . . I know there is no afterlife, but I liked the idea of pissing her off for all eternity_."

Ducky raised his eyebrows.

"So you think Gray eventually gave him the part about the guy praying because he knew O'Donnell would enjoy it."

"Yes. And more than that," Ducky leaned in, "Gray was clearly upset about having to kill that man. He would obviously never want to torture him. But O'Donnell asks anyway. _Did you kill him slowly?_"

"That - wasn't an act, Duck," Gibbs said slowly. "Gray was out of it after that patrol. I think he may actually be religious."

"Possibly," Ducky said. "Either way, he does not like to kill. And the boy_ uses_ that, Jethro, you see? He doesn't _need_ to lie - he entices O'Donnell by truthfully showing these parts of himself. If it had not been so distressing for the boy, O'Donnell would not have been excited by it."

Gibbs tilted his head and rubbed at his jaw. Was this supposed to reassure him? Gray giving O'Donnell what he wanted to hear? "Well. It worked."

"Of course. O'Donnell is a sadist. Gray shows that he is upset and O'Donnell becomes aroused, no doubt predictably." Ducky's eyes glinted. "And then Gray skates around his first lie. O'Donnell says, _We could have caught up face to face. What was all that drama about?_ And Gray answers: _We didn't know who it was. We don't stop for just anybody_."

"O'Donnell called him on it," Gibbs pointed out. "He figured the kid was lying."

"Yes. Gray is talking to an interrogator, one who is able to spot this fairly obvious lie. Gray would not have stopped the car even if he did know it was O'Donnell. But they are both interrogators, aren't they? And both trying to protect themselves, to gain some intelligence regarding the other's situation. They are playing a game. This is what O'Donnell so enjoys. He liked hearing Gray thank him for killing his mother, precisely because he _knows_ Gray wishes his mother was still alive. He enjoys Gray _pretending_ to accept sex with his torturer, particularly in front of "eavesdropping federal agents." It gives O'Donnell the power that he craves, allows him to show off his supposed control over the boy. You told me that O'Donnell even agreed not to hurt Gray's family and friends. In exchange, Gray gives him what he wants, to a degree. I think that includes conversations like this one. And a promise to return to Colombia and to O'Donnell himself, sooner or later."

O'Donnell agreed not to hurt Gray's family. Right. "He killed the kid's mother, Duck."

"Yes. But a mother who has been estranged from him for some time, it seems. And O'Donnell is aware that Gray returned to one of those camps in order to release you. That was most decidedly outside of O'Donnell's control and interefered with his own plans. A betrayal worthy of some punishment." Ducky paused, puzzled. "Gray gives O'Donnell what he wants in order to protect his friends. What I don't understand is why the man courts a relationship with the boy at all. It is interesting that he claims to have killed the mother quickly. For a man like O'Donnell that likely took quite a bit of discipline. Admitting to torturing her would simply bring him more pleasure. Why wouldn't he torture her? And if he did, why would he lie and say he didn't?"

Gibbs rubbed his hands down his thighs, feeling tired. "Gray may have a legal claim to the cartel's land."

"Ah." Ducky frowned as he considered that. "So O'Donnell hoped that Gray would knock Londono off his throne. And open the path for his own rise?"

Gibbs nodded. "Seems like."

Ducky glanced up from his notes. "You do realize - in his own way this man _is_ courting Gray here. The boy is intruiging, attractive to him. Potentially powerful. And seems receptive to his advances."

His advances.

Gibbs straightened his shoulders. He knew what Ducky meant, even if he didn't like it. Duck said it that way to let the kid keep some respect, even in a conversation he would never hear.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I realize that."

"And O'Donnell convinced himself that a boy such as this actually is receptive, even if Gray has also always been wary." Ducky harrumphed, eyes still on his scrawled notes. "Sadistic. Intelligent, clearly. And utterly delusional."

Gibbs looked at him sharply, and Ducky caught it. He observed Gibbs openly, finally, with the eyes of a scientist, trained to miss nothing at all. "But you know most of this already," he said. "So what is it that you really came down here to ask me, Jethro?"

Gibbs sighed. "He's been gone six days, Duck. Kort doesn't know where he is. He says Cass and the other kids don't know either."

"You want to know if he will come back."

Gibbs gave him a sideways nod.

"Or if he will run. Or press for power within the cartel," Ducky concluded, "and perhaps continue to work with men like O'Donnell." The doctor sat back and removed his reading glasses, tucking them into the breast pocket of his lab coat. "Men he is clearly capable of manipulating."

Gibbs flexed his hands, wishing he was far from here. Far from the person he was - one who knew just how likely it was that Gray would return to the only home he had ever really known. "It's clear from this call that the kid could . . . handle him."

"Yes. But it is also clear that he is extremely angry," Ducky said quietly. "I think he will return to you, Jethro. But I know that he would never go willingly to O'Donnell."

Gibbs looked at him closely. "You're sure of that?"

"You are worried about this sadist's ties to Gray because the boy appears to have an honest conversation with him. Gray seems to be under the man's control, even accepting his guidance, however reluctantly. But that is exactly what Gray wanted O'Donnell to believe. _We_ know that it was not honest at all. You wonder if the boy could lie convincingly enough to fool O'Donnell." Ducky actually chuckled. "And here he's fooled you both!"

The doctor waited expectantly for Gibbs' eureka moment.

Gibbs shook his head. "Not following, Duck."

The ME huffed. "I know you believe that I was upset to the point of stupidity on the night that I removed a bullet from Gray's leg. But I was not so completely befuddled that I could not hear and understand the more heated parts of a conversation in the next room," he prodded.

Gibbs frowned, reaching in his memory for that night. Ducky had been in the kitchen, and Gibbs . . .

"I goaded Gray into admitting that he was trying to protect other kids. And I implied that he'd failed."

"Yes, you provoked him. And Gray counterattacked rather well, didn't he. He went for the throat."

Gray had thrown Shannon and Kelly at him. "He was angry," Gibbs acknowledged.

"Yes. And he didn't hesitate to show it. Jethro," Ducky continued, "the boy has asked you for assistance all of three times, correct? Once when he was in jail. Again when he was shot. And finally when he was chased by O'Donnell. What does that tell you?"

Gibbs had his eureka moment.

Not because of any of those things Ducky said - not exactly. He remembered Gray's face outside a police station on a bright fall morning. That one human moment, admitting he couldn't stand being locked up. Remembered Gray's voice the night he'd been shot, breaking with fatigue and grief, and above all the fear of an addiction he couldn't entirely control. He remembered Gray stalking into his home after O'Donnell pursued his family through DC, how he held a gun, cool and dangerous, to McGee's head. Gibbs had allowed it, to a point. Had understood it.

Because the kid was obviously angry. But more than that - Gray was terrified.

"He was afraid," Gibbs remembered. Of course he was. O'Donnell was powerful enough to hunt the kids from halfway around the world if he decided he wanted to. Gibbs had simply put that knowledge aside, because - "But he didn't show it."

"No," Ducky agreed. "Pain arouses a sadist. But an expression of fear or anger would very likely provoke him."

"Gray reassured him," Gibbs said slowly. "He gave him pain, but not fear. He bought us time."

"Yes."

"And you think he'll come back?" Gibbs said doubtfully.

"I'm not saying he'll be happy when he does," Ducky said briskly. "But you have seen him angry and scared before. You know what he's most likely to do."

When Ziva was attacked. And the kids were chased. When Gray was thrown around by those FBI agents, and when he'd been pressed brutally by Gibbs himself. Gray said it made the most sense to join overwhelming enemies, or to run from them. Maybe he even believed that. But it wasn't what he actually did.

"He fights."

Ducky smiled. "He certainly does."

**x**

It was the afternoon of the seventh day. McGee poked his head into the observation room where Gibbs sat staring at Hanlan and Kort. The informant had been explaining what he knew of Londono's team of accountants. For five hours. Hanlan was helped by visual aides like maps of various cities and a cardboard crate full of photographs and financial documents.

Kort seemed to be interested in the security of a cottage that Hanlan had visited exactly once, three years ago.

Gibbs was mostly wondering if he would have had assignments that were more or less boring than this one if he'd stayed in the Marines all those years ago. But even the question implied that more boring was out there, and really, was that even possible?

"Boss," McGee whispered. He still whispered here, even though there was no reason to - the interrogation rooms were soundproof. Gibbs gestured for him to go on, not looking away from Hanlan's bland face. "Security just called up."

Gibbs waited for the big reveal. But nothing followed. He glanced to the door to find McGee distracted by the interview, watching avidly as Kort and Hanlan poured over a stack of spreadsheets.

Really?

"McGee!"

McGee snapped to attention so fast he almost slammed the door on himself. "Oh - uh, Cassandra and Thomas Gray are here to see you."

Really.

Gibbs stood, happily handing McGee the pad of paper and the pen that had balanced on his lap, pointing to the chair he'd just gotten out of as he walked out of the room. They weren't recording the interviews - any electronic documentation felt like a risk. "Notes, McGee. Don't miss anything."

Ziva had escorted the kids to a conference room. When Gibbs found them they were looking out the far window at the ships and the water, Ziva pointing out landmarks against the setting sun.

Gibbs entered quietly and settled into a chair. Cassie turned a minute or two later, not at all startled to see him at the table. She took a seat across from him, and Tomas sat beside her.

"Hi."

"Hi," she answered. And paused.

Gibbs studied her curiously. She hadn't been this shy since their first meeting.

"How are you, Cassie?"

"Fine. And you?"

Gibbs nodded. "No school today?"

"It's almost 5 o'clock," Cassie said.

Gibbs checked his watch and smiled slightly.

Cassie looked at him like she was on to him, but would humor Gibbs anyway. "But yes. During school hours we were in school today. Ziva called and said it was probably safe to go back."

Gibbs nodded thoughtfully. "How about Sean? He in school today?"

"I do not know," she said evenly. "If he is, it is not at his old school."

"You haven't had any further contact with Gray?"

"No."

Gibbs rested his chin in his hand. "I'd like to talk to him," he said easily. "If you know where he is."

"I do not."

She fell silent. They sat there for almost a minute, neither of the kids moving a muscle. "Why are you here, Cassie?"

"We do not know as many of the leaders as Gray," she said promptly. "But we know many of them. We can help you."

A beat of silence.

"You do not have to do that," Ziva said.

Cassie's face registered slight surprise. "I know." She hesitated. "You do not need the information?"

Gibbs wished he could say they didn't. But they absolutely did.

Half an hour later McGee and Tomas lugged the last of the printed surveillance into the conference room. Gibbs posted a guard at the door as Tomas and Cassie began sorting through the endless photographs. Looking for targets.

Gibbs ordered the kids a pizza and kicked them out after three hours, locking the door to the conference room behind them and telling them half jokingly to go do their homework. They nodded seriously, turned down his offer of a ride, and told him they would be back tomorrow.

He had his own team pack it in a few hours later. Sifting intel was grinding work. They needed to be sharp to be any good at it, and after a fourteen hour day they simply weren't. Tony stood and stretched theatrically. McGee had perked up and begun clicking away at his computer, doing whatever he did on the thing in his down time.

"Gibbs."

He turned to look at Ziva. She'd put on her coat and come to stand by his desk.

"Kort is still interviewing Hanlan."

Gibbs touched the power button on his computer and stood, picking up his own coat. "Yeah?" _So_?

She didn't say anything more. But she held his hard stare confidently, eyes dark and knowing. The unflinching gaze of a woman intimidated by nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye Gibbs could see Tony stalling, listening.

Kort had avoided them all. But Gibbs didn't have to be that close to recognize a man coming apart at the seams. He doubted any of his team had missed it, though Kort was composed as ever, always in rigid control as he pressed Hanlan and squeezed the others.

Hour after hour after hour.

As far as Gibbs knew Kort hadn't left the building for more than a few minutes all week. He'd been showering in the gym locker room, crashing for a few hours a night on Ducky's autopsy tables. And every day that Gray stayed gone seemed to carve another year into his face.

"Get out of here, all of you," Gibbs emphasized. He tossed a warning look at McGee, still riveted to his computer, and glanced at his watch. It was 2300. "Be back at 0800."

They nodded and murmured agreeably and made a show of gathering their things, watching him walk to the elevator and punch the button that would take him down to the interrogation suite.

He glared back at them as he stepped in. "Go home!"

But they were nosy and stubborn and pretty much fearless - just as he had trained them to be. So when he passed their floor with Kort in tow a few minutes later he wasn't exactly surprised to feel the elevator stop, and watch as the doors opened to reveal his team.

"Hey boss." Tony grinned and stepped into the car, followed closely by McGee and Ziva. He pushed the already lit button for the ground floor and bounced a bit, relaxed and curious and completely Tony.

Gibbs grunted. Tim looked down at the floor, awkward in the silence of their crowded little box. Ziva blatantly stared at Kort.

The CIA agent ignored them all. They were silent as they walked to their cars. And then Kort finally spoke to them, for what felt like the first time in days.

"Stay out of this," he muttered, and quickened his steps, outpacing them.

Gibbs was already slowing, looking around as his hand went to his hip. Ziva frowned at Kort and then stopped dead, drawing her gun, sweeping the line of cars closest to them.

Tony and McGee, long used to the others' instincts, followed suit so quickly the movement looked choreographed. Their eyes tracked Kort's gaze to the dark line of cars, and the sights of their guns leveled on Gray as he stepped out from the shadows.

* * *

><p><em>an: __"Truthiness" is a Colbert Nation word. I would certainly not want to commit any mannerly or copyright infringiness by using it without noting its illustrious source._


	60. Let Me Go

**Chapter 60: Let Me Go**

Kort stopped, and the agents fanned out around him, peering at Gray through the shadowy light.

Gray didn't stop. His stride toward Kort was smooth even as his left shoulder dipped and his right fist swung up, thrown with every ounce of power his body could give him. Kort dodged the first swing easily, and the one after that. He was efficient, barely moving. Kort would tire him, Gibbs thought. Kort would tire him and then they would talk it out.

But Gray didn't tire.

He kept coming, pushing Kort back, finally connecting with a kick to the knee. The agent staggered and Gray flew into the advantage, a blur of violence. A minute in and Kort was bleeding, retreating, protecting his core.

Gibbs' agents kept glancing his way, waiting for the order to wade in. But Gray wouldn't hesitate to fight all of them, and then what were they going to do? Bring him down five to one? Even if they did, what would it get them? Gray would still want to fight.

Kort stopped dodging and tried trapping Gray's arms. When he managed to come close Gray kicked out a foot and followed up with a backhand that caught Kort under the chin and smashed up his face, blood from his mouth and a cut over his eye spraying the air.

And then Kort was on his knees, disoriented. The lethal figure standing over him already moving into another blow. Gray didn't have a scratch on him. Kort hadn't thrown a punch.

Gibbs sensed the change and the next moment Kort launched forward, grabbing Gray around the body and wrenching him down to the asphalt, dead weight limiting Gray's movement. Their bodies heaved together for a few seconds, both of them sucking in air, and then Gray jerked under him.

"Enough," Kort growled.

Gray's body moved with Kort's breath, using the inch to slam up. The shock of it and his skinny frame, Kort's reluctance to really hurt him, gave Gray just enough. Kort grabbed for him but Gray was already slipping away, and they were standing, circling, stances so similar Gibbs knew instantly it was Kort who taught him this.

Gray reached down to his leg and a blade whispered into his hand. The teams' pistols jerked up again, automatic response to the weapon. Gibbs shifted, gun trained on one of the kid's legs, eyes fixed on Gray's face. There wasn't a shadow of doubt there, or of anything else. The hesitation that had saved Dinozzo and probably Abby was gone.

Kort's hand moved back toward Gibbs, another silent _stay out of it_.

Gray struck with his left fist and Kort ignored it, focus on the knife. Gray punched him again, brought up a leg in a low kick, the force of it knocking Kort's upper body forward. The blade swung up to meet him.

Gibbs' breath froze in his lungs.

And finally the peacekeeper Kort was trying to be was gone. He attacked, exploding into Gray, one arm knocking the knife hand to the side easily, the other fist slamming into Gray's face. Gray's body arched and flew back, following his head down to the pavement.

Gibbs' first thought was that Gray was unconscious. He was that still.

But then he rolled to his feet, blood running from his nose and the side of his head. And he grinned, teeth bloody under the parking lot lights. The next second he was moving again. Coming forward for more.

The CIA agent tried again to trap him, took two more blows before an upward stab of the blade almost reached his gut. Kort brought a leg up into Gray's body, lifting his lighter opponent and slamming him back once more, body crashing to the pavement.

Kort stepped back as Gray pushed to his feet and came forward again. "Gray. Enough - " Kort went for the knife, but Gray kept it in reserve, forcing Kort to lunge for it, to leave his midsection open. Kort swept the knife arm down and drove a fist into Gray's shoulder with shattering power. Gray crumpled to his knees.

Gibbs didn't know how the kid held onto the knife. But he did. Long enough to move it to his other hand, for Kort to back away warily. Gray would keep coming until Kort beat him unconscious - or worse.

"Trent," Gibbs said, quiet. "End it."

Kort's arms jerked out, useless frustration, like a man backed into a corner. "Alright. Just - " He wiped blood from his face, sharp movement annoyed, and Gray stilled, furious and expectant, teetering on the edge of another assault.

"Fine. I knew where she was," Kort said flatly. "But I couldn't get her out. No one could. Knowing - " He shrugged, stiff. "It didn't matter."

Gray wiped his knife idly on his pants. He'd caught Kort's arm with it and the blade smeared red. "Only asked for one thing," he said finally.

Kort was silent, staring at the boy in front of him like he didn't know the words.

"When," Gray said listlessly.

"Two years ago."

Gray tipped his head back a bit, squinting into the dark sky like if he looked away, looked far and hard enough, what was right in front of him would be bearable.

"She was already with Londono," Kort said heavily. "It would have been suicide to try for her."

Gray didn't look at Kort, or anyone else. He addressed the horizon, like he was sending his questions up to the sky, to the stars or to God. To no one in that dark lot. "Why?"

When it finally came Kort's answer was half-hearted. "His security is – "

Gray laughed, sandpaper on metal. "You can cut the shit. You think I don't already know?" And then his eyes found Kort's. "It's over. You and me. We're done."

Kort wiped his hands on his shirt, gesture tired, maybe nervous. "You don't have to run. Help us get the – "

"Shut up. You think I give a shit? I don't want them."

"If I told you where she was you'd have gone after her! You'd be _dead_," Kort said impatiently. "Before you ever left. Is that what you wanted?"

"I wanted the truth." Gray was bitter, amused, as if he knew now he had asked for some impossible feat.

Kort was silent.

"She didn't want to leave him," Gray probed.

Still Kort was silent.

"She knew where I was."

Kort shook his head. But not exactly in denial. "That's - It's not that – "

"Shut up, everything you say is worthless. And you stay away from us," Gray said, low. A threat. "All of us." He turned, already moving away.

Kort didn't hesitate then. He went after him. "Hold - Gray - "

Kort leapt back from the knife, and then forward, wrestling in earnest now, shoving Gray into the cars behind him. Gray spun out of his grip and they slammed into a van. Kort used the solid weight at his back to steady himself. Gray swung into him low with one hand and went high with the other. The knife was a blur in his hand, cutting down to Kort's chest. The agents watching lurched forward, and Kort seized the boy's shoulders, too late. The knife had whipped home.

It struck the window next to Kort's shoulder and cracked it. Gray's fist rammed down the hilt, following the blade into the glass.

Gray and Kort stared at each other. And then Kort looked to his side, to Gray's hand.

Gray turned his face away, but his body was trapped, shoulders immobile under Kort's weight. Gray's fist drew back from the cracked glass and forward again in a blur, body twisting, hitting the window with a crunch that could have been glass and could have been bone. On the third punch he smashed through.

This time when Gray turned and shoved away Kort stayed where he was.

Gibbs stepped forward and blocked Gray's path instead.

The kid swayed in front of him, blood dripping from the limp hand at his side. Gibbs noticed that he looked dirty, thinner than he had just a week ago.

"Let me go, Gibbs."

Gibbs cocked his head, as if he was considering it. "Someone needs to look at that hand."

"It's fine."

Gibbs stepped forward.

"I can take care of it," Gray insisted.

"No," Gibbs said, and stepped forward again, holstering his weapon. "I don't think you can."

Gray backed away, but he was being pushed toward the NCIS agents closing in behind him, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it. "You don't owe me," he said hastily. "I don't owe you. It's done."

"It's not done," Gibbs said. "Not yet."

Gray shook his head. He stopped moving back and edged to Gibbs' side instead, toward an opening in the cars. Gibbs reached for him fast and Gray dodged. But he was hemmed in by the cars and the agents and his own injuries, and Gibbs caught him, wrapped him securely in his arms, trying all the while not to touch him too much. Gray breathed deliberately, carefully, trying to rein it in. "Let me go."

The kid's usual iron posture felt brittle, like something ancient that would crumble at a touch.

"It's going to be okay, Gray." His shoulders heaved under Gibbs, shaky, and Gibbs figured he might as well go in for the kill. "We got him, you know." He whispered it into Gray's ear, skin crawling with the intimacy. "O'Donnell. _Diablo_. He's dead."

Gray went low and abruptly slammed into him, knocking Gibbs to the side. Gibbs absorbed the blow and went down against a car. But he brought Gray with him, cushioned from the fall, and they ended up propped against a fender. It would be easier if Gray was on the ground, but Gibbs didn't want to try pinning him. He held him tight against his body instead, accepting the violence as Gray struggled.

Gray was smaller - it was shocking how small - worn out and hurt. Gradually he stopped, and then he went rigid, hunched in Gibbs' arms. For a moment it seem the only thing that moved was the blood running over Gray's hand, dripping onto the pavement. He'd cut himself on the blade, mangled his fist in the glass. Gibbs used the car behind him to stand, cradling Gray in his arms, shifting dead weight against his body until he was secure.

"Dinozzo, you're with me. Call Ducky, get him in here. McGee, deal with security and these cars. Ziva - " Gibbs nodded in Kort's direction and took off for the NCIS building, Dinozzo on his heels.


	61. First Aid

**Chapter 61: First Aid**

Tony closed his phone, trotting beside Gibbs to keep up. "Ducky's ETA is twenty minutes." They pushed through the outer doors to the lobby. "He's not happy we're not heading straight to Bethesda."

Gibbs swept past the night guards without slowing down. "Needs a doctor," he said, and added a glare. "Mallard's on his way in."

It was after hours. It was Gibbs. And whatever of Gray was visible was smeared with blood. Security waved them through.

In the elevator Tony stared at the boy in his arms like Gray had sprouted scales. Gray's eyes were closed, skin pale, sweaty, body trembling. Shock, Gibbs guessed. "Get the blanket from Abby's lab."

Tony nodded.

They stepped off the elevator and Gibbs pushed toward autopsy, never more grateful for automatic doors. By the time Dinozzo came in with the big black fleece he had Gray on a table, settled against him.

"Gauze, Dinozzo."

Gibbs wrapped the blanket around him and reached for Gray's injured hand. He elevated it, turning the bleeding palm to inspect it. Two cuts, one through his fingers and one through the palm.

Kid was lucky he still had fingers.

"That's deep," Tony muttered, the roll of gauze unraveling in his hands. "Glass on the outside?"

Gibbs twisted the hand in his, looked for anything obvious glittering in the scratches bleeding freely down the wrist. "Nothing big. Wrap it up."

Tony wrapped the palm and fingers and the outer cuts expertly, moving as quickly as he could. Gray's eyes were screwed shut, his breathing ragged, heaving. The kid was going to pieces.

When he was done Gibbs continued to hold the arm up, hoping to keep the blood loss to a minimum, and used his other hand to push Gray's shoulders forward. "Put your head down."

Gray pulled on the elevated hand and growled with what little breath he had until Gibbs let it go. Once free he put his head down toward his knees, no argument.

Like he'd done it before.

Tony moved away to the swivel chair. Gibbs sat beside Gray. Eight long minutes before gasps subsided to normal breathing. It wasn't good, but it wasn't totally out of control, either.

When it was over Gray pulled up a little and Gibbs removed the hand that had been on his back. Dinozzo wet a couple paper towels and Gray wiped his face.

Gibbs let another five go by in silence.

Ordinarily he was all for quiet time. But he wasn't sure that this was the best moment for it. He could practically hear the kid's mind start to buzz. Even Dinozzo was utterly still in Ducky's swivel chair – a first, as far as Gibbs knew.

When Gibbs looked down Gray was still hunched over beside him, elbows on his knees. "You alright?"

A nod.

"That happen to you before?"

Nothing. But Gibbs knew it had.

"What do you think about?"

No response.

"Had a friend who got panic attacks," Gibbs said casually. "You're supposed to think about calming things, aren't you?"

"It's not panic."

Right. And Gibbs was Santa Claus in a polo shirt.

"No? What is it?"

A shrug.

"But you think happy thoughts to control it?"

Nothing.

Gibbs grit his teeth and put his hand on Gray's back again. Asserting dominance easily, completely. "Happy thoughts?"

Gray cleared his throat, hunched under Gibbs' hand, staring at Ducky's shiny floor. "Sort of."

His voice was quiet and hoarse as hell, but the words were clear. Inching toward calm. Gibbs pushed it, hoping to keep Gray's mind focused, locked on something neutral.

Maybe even something sort of happy.

"Sort of happy? Like what?"

Gray rolled his good shoulder. "Whatever. Stuff." Reluctant.

Gibbs didn't care. "Like?"

Another irritated roll. Gibbs almost smiled.

"Soccer. Ice cream. Tomatoes. Wally. Sex. A long slow fuck. You want me to go on?"

No surprise he had the happy thoughts of a smart ass. But sarcasm was a lot better than panic in Gibbs' book.

"Who's Wally?"

A bone weary sigh. "A movie. Sean likes."

Gibbs stared at the back of Gray's sweaty head.

"WALL - E," Dinozzo drawled. "About a robot in love, boss."

"Yeah," Gray agreed faintly. "WALL-E."

Okay. So the sex didn't have anything to do with Wally. Hopefully, if it was a robot.

"Huh. Tomatoes?"

A long pause. "I've got tomatoes."

His voice was flat with fatigue. And it would be normal to be pretty spacey after a meltdown like that. But tomatoes?

Gibbs looked to Dinozzo. Tony shook his head, as lost as Gibbs.

"In summer," Gray explained into the silence. "And cucumbers. Zucchini. Sunflowers."

Gibbs blinked. "You have a vegetable garden?"

A shrug.

Gibbs was silent, but in an expectant way, and Gray went on, still mutinously cooperative. Gibbs didn't know if that was about leftover panic or something else. "Couldn't stop thinking about fighting, at first," Gray said. "Holly said that wasn't good. Kept saying her garden was soothing."

"Let me guess. You didn't think farming would be soothing," Gibbs said drily.

"She came over - " Gray broke off abruptly and shook his head. Gibbs looked down, surprised, as a tremor ran up the kid's back.

Shit.

Dinozzo propped an elbow on Ducky's desk. "_Holly Snow_ hoed your garden?"

Gray snorted. More tremors.

"What did she wear?" Tony said dreamily.

Gray glanced up, finally, and made what Gibbs could only assume was an obscene gesture. Kid was definitely laughing now, a little hysterically, holding his least injured hand to his ribs.

Gibbs opened his mouth to protest that gesture, but Dinozzo beat him to it.

"Overalls?" he said doubtfully.

A nod. "Good overalls," Gray grinned, voice wavering, and wiped tears from his eyes. "Really hot."

"Tomatoes."

"Yeah."

"I've got to get to that clinic," Dinozzo sighed.

Gibbs frowned.

Gray beat him to it. "Ziva's little army would have your balls."

"Yep," Dinozzo smiled wistfully. "Probably."

Gray looked, more aware than he'd been before. The sudden laughter was gone as quickly as it came. "She here?"

Tony looked calmly to Gibbs.

"Care of remains is the autopsy assistant's job," Gibbs said. "He's not here at the moment."

It was true that his mother's remains – what there was of them – were put into cold storage by the autopsy gremlin. What Gray couldn't possibly know was that Palmer's storage area meant the steel drawers directly behind them. And the chart that would tell them exactly which drawer she was in was hanging right over the ME's desk, like it always was.

Gray was looking at him suspiciously. Gibbs met his eyes nonchalantly and wondered where the hell Ducky was.

Dinozzo rescued him. "How come you could get into NCIS but you couldn't get into our autopsy room?"

Gray's eyes left Gibbs' slowly. "Getting in wasn't the problem."

Dinozzo frowned. And then he got it. "Not enough people down here – you'd be noticed. And Ducky would recognize you. You needed an agent with you to look legit, huh?"

"Maybe the people down here are just more observant than the field agents upstairs," Gibbs said idly.

Dinozzo looked appropriately wounded.

Gray's good hand curled into a fist. "He here?"

"No," Gibbs said.

"How do you know," Gray's voice was hoarse still, but harder now. "How do you know he's dead?"

Gibbs passed a hand over his eyes. "Not here, Gray." Gray's body went hard, and after a second he began to work his way to the edge of the table. Gibbs took his arm before he could hop down and pulled him back gently, mindful of the shoulder. "We can't talk about it here, I mean. But I'm sure he's dead. And I will tell you about it later."

Blank eyes. What did that mean? Suspicion? Betrayal? "He's gone, Gray. I promise you that. And we'll talk about it later."

Gray just looked at him. Gibbs wasn't sure if that meant agreement or not.

And that's when Ducky stalked in.

He glared at Gibbs so ferociously Gibbs released his grip on Gray automatically. The kid at his side scooted away slightly, like he didn't want to catch Ducky's wrath. But the doctor's words, and the eyes he turned on Gray, were kind. "My dear boy. We must stop meeting like this."

"I'm fine," Gray protested.

Ducky snorted. "You were in a brawl with Trent Kort." He cast a glance theatrically around the morgue, looking for the body as he shrugged out of his coat and hat and moved toward the sink to wash up. "And he is?"

"Fine," Gibbs said shortly.

Ducky raised an eyebrow and left it alone.

"Now, let's take a look at you." Duck considered Gray carefully, taking in the blanket tucked around him and the white wrapped hand. "Is your hand the worst of it?"

"Yeah."

"Anything else?"

Gray shook his head.

"Punched in the shoulder, gut and jaw," Gibbs said. "Cuts on the hand are deep. Might have hit his head." He thought a moment. "Don't know if he's got anything else – from before the fight."

Ducky looked swiftly at Gibbs and then back to the hand.

He pulled out a stethoscope and gestured to Gray's shirt. "May I?"

Ducky listened to his chest. "Heart rate is fast, but not dangerously so. Breath sounds normal. I would just like to feel along your jaw, if that is alright?"

A positively shy nod, and Ducky skimmed over the bones in Gray's face, over his skull, and shone a penlight into his eyes and mouth. "A bump on the back of the head, certainly. But no sign of concussion. Lucky. And no broken teeth."

Ducky lifted Gray's uninjured hand and palpitated the fingers, red from connecting with Kort's harder bits. Then he touched the skin, pinching it gently. "You appear dehydrated. Do you think that likely?"

A shrug. Definitely a yes.

Ducky gestured toward the sink. "Could you get us some water, Anthony? And then perhaps some juice from the vending machines." Dinozzo hopped to, Gray's eyes tracking him to the sink and back, and then out of the room.

Did that mean Dinozzo made him nervous? Or that he was more nervous without Dinozzo in the room? Maybe he just kept track automatically, no matter who it was. Gibbs couldn't tell.

Ducky moved on to the shoulder Gibbs indicated, ghosting over it. Gray made no sign that any of it hurt. He never had.

"The shoulder seems swollen, but not out of place. Have you ever dislocated it?"

Gray shook his head.

"Well, another piece of luck. And now your hand I think. If I'm not mistaken this is Tony's excellent work, eh?"

Gray held it out carelessly and Ducky cut through the wad of gauze, already sticky with blood on the bottom layers. Duck took one look at the wound itself and reached for fresh gauze to begin wrapping it up again. "This needs an orthopedic surgeon."

Gray looked amused. Tired, but amused. "It's fine." He straightened at Ducky's severe look. "I mean, it'll heal."

"Yes," Ducky agreed. "Of course it will. But you will need x-rays to check for fractures, which I suspect you do have. Those may in turn need internal pins to set correctly or surgery to remove bone fragments."

"It's not – "

"Of far greater concern, in my opinion – which, you understand, is an expert _medical_ opinion, and not your own macho flight of fancy – is that you have almost certainly cut through tendons and nerves running to your fingers. That means your hand will not work as well as it did before. Without treatment you could lose the ability to grip." Ducky demonstrated with his own hand. "A specialist will be able to see if surgery could limit loss of function."

Damn. Gibbs rubbed a hand down his face.

"I don't care," the kid said.

Ducky nodded understandingly, calmly wrapping the wound. "I know. But I do care." Duck held up a hand when Gray shook his head. "You are young, Gray. You don't know how an injury like this could limit your options later in life." Duck searched the kid's eyes intently and went back to wrapping the hand. "If we can possibly keep loss of movement or even loss of strength to a minimum then I would very much like to try. What do you say?"

Gibbs eyed Ducky appraisingly. Duck never talked about treatment like that. When they were seriously hurt it was Ducky's way or the highway. And it was generally understood that the highway meant a couple of Navy Yard Marines hauling you off to get it done Ducky's way regardless.

Gray's eyes went quickly to the autopsy room doors, and Gibbs smiled grimly. He understood the urge to run.

The kid's gaze worked its way back to Ducky. "I did this to myself," he said evenly, nodding at his hand. He was quiet then, as if that would be enough to change Ducky's mind.

"Yes, I know," Ducky said briskly. "I have seen these types of wounds before. But how you were injured is not something that is of primary importance – not at the moment, at any rate."

He snipped the end of the gauze and secured it with tape. "Can you walk?"

Gray shook his head, more firmly. "You don't – I can't go to the hospital – "

"Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?" Gibbs interrupted.

"I can walk," Gray said slowly. "But not to your hospital."

Gibbs nodded, flipped open his phone, and called Kort.

**x**

Ziva looked Kort over critically. He was leaning against the car, motionless next to the broken, red-flecked window.

"Come on," she said, and seized an arm, hauling him forward. "McGee will be returning with security to look after this. It would be best if we were no longer here."

She had no doubt Kort would walk without her if he could, but his knee had been kicked in a direction that no knee should go, and he hobbled along with her assistance.

"Where are we going?" he muttered.

"There is a first aid kit in our team car. I am taking you there." She paused. "Do you believe you need a doctor?"

"No."

They limped silently through the lot, but Kort shook her off when they got close.

"I'm fine. My car is just there." He gestured to a demure black sports car sitting a few rows down and pivoted awkwardly toward it.

"You can't leave," she said firmly. "Gibbs may need you here. Sit." She maneuvered him toward the NCIS Charger, popped the door, and shoved him into the back seat while she went to the trunk to retrieve the kit. She reappeared with it a moment later, along with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of water.

Ziva wet the towels and went for his head, but he grabbed them from her hands. "I don't need a nursemaid."

"Good," she said. "I am not a nurse. Or a maid."

But she stood back and let him scrub the blood from his face, and finally press the wet towels to the oozing cut on his forehead. After a minute she wordlessly moved in again and cleaned the areas he'd missed, and when he let his hand drop applied peroxide and two pieces of tape to keep it more or less closed.

"Your arm is bleeding. Take off your jacket. And your hand is cut as well."

Kort looked down at his hand as if he hadn't noticed, and didn't care. He must have cut it on Gray's teeth, or grazed it on a car. He shook his head and leaned sideways into the seat, too tired to respond.

She rolled up his shirtsleeve herself and inspected the forearm. The cut was clean. No surprise there. Gray's knife was probably honed to the edge of a razor.

"This needs stitches."

He didn't respond at all, so she put some gauze over it and taped it as best she could, closed the ruined sleeve and washed the torn knuckles silently, applying more of the stinging disinfectant. "Not very serious. But it will heal faster this way," she murmured when she finished, and looked the rest of his exposed skin over carefully. It looked intact.

"Anywhere else?" Ziva knelt in front of him and reached for his pant leg, fortunately loose, and began hitching it up. "Do you think he injured your ribs?"

Kort opened his eyes when cool air alerted him to the fact that his pants had been eased up over his knee. She was inspecting the joint closely, running fingers featherlight over a kneecap already lumpy and numb with scar tissue.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

She raised an eyebrow, but didn't look up. "This is not obviously broken or dislocated. But it is already swelling," she observed. "The soft tissues have been strained, at least. We should elevate and apply a cold pack. Ducky will want to look at it."

He stared at her as if she had grown a green head. "I'm not one of Mallard's wards."

"You have been sleeping in his autopsy room for days," she pointed out, cool and steady, as she almost always was. "And you are working with Gibbs' team. The team doctor will treat your injuries."

"I'm not injured."

She efficiently strapped a thin chemical cold pack to the point of impact on his knee and eased the pant leg over it. "This pack should be cycled on and off for fifteen minutes every hour," she said, as if he didn't already know that. Next she dug through the kit for something anti-inflammatory, coming up a few seconds later with a single dose packet of Motrin. "Cold and elevation will ease the swelling. As will these," she said, and handed him first the pills, then the bottle of water.

He swallowed the pills and set the water next to him in the car.

"Thank you," he said lowly.

She reached for his shirt.

He watched her hands move toward him incredulously. "You don't – "

"If you have fractured ribs they should be x-rayed immediately. I believe I can tell by touch if any are seriously broken. But Ducky will check later as well. Perhaps he will insist on an x-ray in any case. And a CAT scan." For being so constant her voice was oddly soothing. "You took several blows to the kidneys. Do you have pain in your lower back?"

"No," he said. He sounded uncertain.

She unbuttoned the shirt methodically, pretending not to notice when he closed his eyes and turned his face away.

Her fingers were cool, delicate over the blotches of red skin that took the brunt of the damage. "Your breathing is shallow. Does it hurt to breathe?"

"No."

She took her time.

"You taught him well," she observed.

Kort took in air deliberately, evenly. Her hands were strangely soft, for a woman with her skills. And gentle as they ran slowly up the sides of his body.

"O'Donnell was a rival to Gray's father," he said eventually. "Not a very nice one." He grunted as she pressed at a sore spot.

"Yes?" Ziva focused on the sore spots now.

"After his father was killed Gray had no protector." Kort gritted his teeth against a flare of pain in his abdomen. "And O'Donnell had no rival to keep him in check. He decided he liked to watch Gray fight. He'd pit him against bigger opponents. Older boys, men. Watch him beaten."

"Gibbs seems to think you assassinated Daniel Conlon."

Kort didn't say anything. Perhaps he thought this was some Mossad interrogation technique. Kill them with kindness.

"You killed his father, which exposed him to O'Donnell. So you taught Gray to fight. To protect himself." She moved her hands to his left side.

"Protecting him wasn't possible."

"To defend himself, then."

"I taught him what I could before I was transferred out of Colombia. We sparred many times," he said, off-hand. "Never with weapons. . . . I never hit him."

Her hands never paused. "He did not give you a choice tonight." Kort didn't reply. "He wanted you to hit him back. Any one of us would have done the same."

He shrugged slightly.

"Is that why you did not want me around him, at first. Because you thought I wouldn't protect him?"

"No."

"Because I didn't protect those other boys."

He shook his head.

Her hand rested against his heart, briefly. "I don't believe you."

He knew he should push her away. Put himself together and go home. But he was too tired to move. He damn well hurt all over. And the touch felt good.

Kort inhaled, stiff, and looked away again. "I thought you would think you knew him already. That you would think he was a killer beyond redemption. I thought you wouldn't trust him. That he would remind you of mistakes, make you angry, be a distraction. I thought you would think he didn't deserve it – your protection." He paused. "But I knew you would protect him anyway."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps you are right. I did think those things, in the beginning. But he showed me . . . that there was more to him than I first saw. Like the boys who died in my care. There was more there than I wanted to see at the time. I know that now." She buttoned the shirt back up, and smoothed it down. "I think you are all right."

He nodded silently, and she helped him shift back and prop his foot up on the door, elevating his knee. They sat together in the car, quiet. Waiting for news.

When his phone finally rang Kort glanced at the Caller ID and flipped it open cautiously, hitting the speaker button.

"Kort."

"He needs an orthopedic surgeon. Where do we take him?"

Dr. Mallard was faint but distinct in the background. "Jethro, orthopedics at Bethesda are among the best in the country. I see no reason to visit some CIA back alley quack - "

"Washington Central," Kort said. "The agency keeps a suite there. It's secure. Go to private admitting, not the ER. You can give them Holdner's name."

There was murmuring in the background. Something approving about Central's operating room statistics.

"Meet us there," Gibbs said, and hung up.


	62. Clever Boys

**Chapter 62: Clever Boys**

Kort looked at the phone in his hand, and then at Ziva.

"He wants you to repair your relationship with Gray," she said simply.

Kort shook his head. "That isn't - "

"The sooner the better. Come, we will take your car, yes?" She smiled helpfully. "I will drive."

They beat Gibbs and Ducky to the hospital by miles, and eventually spotted them escorting an irritated Gray into one of the private rooms.

"He's hungry," Kort observed out of the blue. "They have room service here 24 hours a day, if he's allowed to eat." He frowned and scratched the stubble on his chin. "And now I am a nursemaid."

Ziva opened her phone and relayed the message.

Five hours later they were sleeping in the absurdly comfortable waiting room chairs when Gibbs and Ducky found them.

"Ah, Agent Kort." Ducky eyed him critically. "Sit up. Let's take a look."

"What?" Kort rubbed his head, blinking up at them. "Where is he?"

"Do be quiet. This will be faster and easier if you're quiet and cooperative. And fast is what we all want, don't you agree?" Ducky peered into Kort's bleary eyes with his pocket light. "Good." He took up Kort's hands and inspected the ripped but clean knuckles. "Very good." Then he pulled on his bloody sleeve. "What's this about?"

Kort tugged the arm back. "How is he?"

Ducky stood up to his full height. "Fast. Or slow. That is your choice, Agent Kort."

Gibbs collapsed into the chair next to Ziva. "Just surrender. It's faster."

Kort looked at Gibbs, ignoring the doctor rolling up his shirtsleeve.

"You were right," Kort said.

"So were you," Gibbs replied evenly. "He was completely off the grid - we never would have found him."

"This needs stitches," Ducky observed. "And you took several blows to the body as well, I understand. Any shortness of breath? Are you passing blood?"

Kort frowned at him as if the very idea of internal bruising was offensive. "No."

"Hmm. I will get you in to see an intern. Anything else your doctor should be aware of?" He eyed the bulky knee propped on a nearby chair.

"No," Kort said firmly, and swung his leg down. "I've already been thoroughly examined by Agent David."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow her way, and Ziva grinned sadistically.

"Very well." Ducky sat down in the chair opposite Kort. "To answer your initial question, Gray is exhausted, dehydrated, and has not eaten well in a week. At the moment he is resting and receiving fluids. Most of his physical injuries are superficial and will heal naturally with time, with the exception of his left hand. Fortunately his doctor is a very good hand specialist. He visually identified two tendon repairs and managed to complete the reattachments with local anesthetic. Gray also suffered two fractured fingers and broke a knuckle. He'll wear a light cast for eight weeks."

Gibbs sat silent through Ducky's spiel, tiredly watching a flow of strangers make its way through the lobby. But Kort was alert, sharp eyes fixed on the doctor. "Long term?"

"As you may imagine he's received quite a few stitches, which will minimize scarring that could have interfered with dexterity. After the swelling goes down and the cast comes off they'll be able to check range of motion. Further treatment will be decided at that point. It is possible that he will fully recover, perhaps with additional surgery. It is also possible that there will be permanent loss of function."

Kort nodded, blank. That was about what he'd expected.

"In the meantime," Ducky continued, "I would like to point out that this was entirely preventable."

Gibbs rubbed a hand over his head, like he'd already heard it. And did not want to hear it again.

The doctor ignored him. "A fistfight is not an acceptable way to 'work off steam.' An altercation involving a knife even less so. Particularly when you both know perfectly well what this boy is capable of."

Ducky sat there and looked at them like he was expecting an answer.

"I'm not sure what the alternative would have been, Doctor Mallard."

"To address a problem?" Ducky's cultured voice was acid, and the eyes he turned on Kort were clear and cold. "Conversation is the usual method."

Gibbs leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. "He was determined to fight, Duck."

"With his friends," Ducky pointed out. "Self-destructive behavior that should have been stopped at once, not allowed to continue."

Gibbs scoffed.

Ziva studied his set face, the harsh lines carving shadows around his mouth. She realized the anger there was not for Ducky. It was fueled by uncertainty, and aimed at Gibbs himself.

"He was angry, armed," Kort muttered. He was squinting down the hall, eyes tracking the odd passerby. "Gray wasn't just going to come in for tea."

"And yet you knew he had to come in, one way or another. I am not saying that avoiding a fight would have been easy. Given an angry young man it may well have been the more difficult path. But then they say the things worth doing generally are. Continue to deal with him through force or violence - "

"Hey," Gibbs protested. "It was one time - "

"It should not have been any time! Don't you think he's had enough of it? Not to mention he is entirely too practiced. He could have killed either one of you." Ducky huffed at their listless shrugs. "Or a third party. _He_ could have been killed, or even more seriously injured. There are better ways to resolve one's difficulties. He is searching for them. He _needs_ them. It would be well on your parts to model some alternative behavior."

The sharp words were met by silence. Ducky rolled his eyes.

"You're clever boys. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He got up and marched off, looking for someone with a needle and a need to practice to sew up Kort.

Gibbs watched him go. "I think that was our scolding for fighting in the bullpen," he said absently.

"And in the parking lot," Ziva reminded him.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed. "Call McGee and Dinozzo with updates. Get some shuteye. I want all of you in the office in eight hours, matching photos to locations in Hanlan's notes. Go."

She slid elegantly to her feet and walked away, pulling out her phone as she disappeared around a corner. It did not escape Gibbs' notice that Kort tracked her every move.

The silence felt awkward, like a heavy load, until Kort broke it.

"Ordering them around is a perk I suppose," he said. "But I'm not convinced the hassle of working with a team of green agents is worth it." He relaxed into the leather armchair, lazy and arrogant. "Though in David's case there may be a few obvious advantages to close collaboration."

Oh, funny. Gibbs worked his jaw and searched for the coffee he was sure he'd set at his feet. "You think Ziva is green. What's the matter - exam not thorough enough?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps she needs practice."

Gibbs closed his eyes and shook his head. If he got into a fight in a hospital waiting room Ducky would kick his ass.

He forced himself to focus on the job instead. He'd faced the worst that violence could do to people, and in the end it was the routine of the job that got him through it. First was resolving the immediate danger. That was done for the night, though as Ducky pointed out it was a Grade A fuck up all around. The one they were trying to protect was the one who got hurt.

After the fight was over you asked the questions. Had the conversation, like Ducky said. Gibbs was pretty good at the imminent danger part, for obvious reasons. But he was good at this part too. He'd always been an efficient interrogator.

Though there were times when he knew in his gut he didn't want the answers that were coming.

Kort was silent, waiting stonily for the next move. He watched Gibbs knowingly, like he was miles ahead, just waiting for Gibbs to catch up. Maybe he was.

"What he said about his mother, about her being with Londono by choice. That true?"

"Yes."

Gibbs had already known that, really, after what Gray hurled at Kort. Still it felt like cement in his gut.

"How do you know?"

"I spoke to her," Kort said, flat. "Years ago, when I found her. I offered to take her to Gray. She had no interest in leaving Londono for a reunion with Gray."

Gibbs tried to puzzle it through. He couldn't. "You didn't tell him. So how does Gray all of a sudden know you lied about her?" He studied the other man's face, the messy silver stubble and the distant pale eyes, still scanning the lobby methodically.

Kort took a moment to respond. "I worked the cartel for years. I've managed to get Londono under surveillance from time to time, and Gray knows it. Then O'Donnell told him that his mother was with Londono before she was killed."

Gibbs frowned skeptically.

"Not a big leap, for him," Kort went on. "My surveillance is thorough. And Gray knows Londono would be able to offer her a much easier life." Kort picked up the bottle of water Ziva had placed beside him and tipped it back and forth, watching it level in his hands. "As long as she was willing to give Gray up."

"And you're sure she was willing," Gibbs probed again.

Kort was still, though his knee hurt like hell and he wanted more pills. Those last ones had worn off. "Define willing. The cartel operated on fear and her options were limited."

Gibbs waited for more.

"She'd heard rumors about him," Kort said finally. "A gray-eyed boy, with the cartel . . . with O'Donnell, no less." He shrugged, shoulders stiff. "By then I think she was afraid of Gray. Meanwhile Londono was cleaning up his act, becoming a respectable businessman. He knew she was related to the Caleras, that she could legitimize his claim to that land. She knew he would protect her as long as she cooperated. And he was sincere about helping her to find their missing son. The innocent son."

Kort raised his eyes, and cocked an eyebrow at Gibbs' intense stare.

"You telling me she didn't know that Sean was with Gray?"

"Few did." Kort spoke slowly. But willingly enough. "After Conlon was killed there was chaos in the camps. I'd arranged an alibi hundreds of miles away and encouraged some dissension in the ranks. So there was suspicion of betrayal from within as well as concern about rival cartels and CIA involvement. Conlon's men ran wild, torching homes, separating families to question them – particularly any who might have had access to Conlon."

"And Gray was one of those?"

Kort nodded. "Gray was taken and interrogated. His mother hid Sean with friends and tried to secure transport out of the region. Months later Gray managed to find Sean, but only with O'Donnell's assistance. He couldn't find his mother at all. It was years before I was able to locate her. By then she was under Londono's influence and believed the stories circulating about Gray." Kort paused. "I doubt she considered him capable of caring for a brother."

Gibbs took a breath. "Gray knows you killed his father?"

"Yes."

"These rumors about Gray. What kind of stories are we talking about?"

Kort paused, reluctant.

Gibbs knew he didn't really want to hear. But he should know. "Just tell me," he said tiredly.

"Gray and the others were a blunt instrument. Most often used for enforcement," Kort said.

"Hits."

"Yes. Against anyone who was seen as a threat to the cartel's expansion." Kort met his eyes and waited for Gibbs' nod, indicating he understood.

"They were useful for gathering intelligence as well," Kort went on. "For keeping people in line. The more gruesome their techniques the more effective, in the cartel's eyes. It was well known that Gray had O'Donnell's interest, that he was often with him," Kort made a small motion with his fingers, "keeping him happy. You know O'Donnell's reputation."

Kort tipped the water bottle back and forth, staring at the predictable flow, the sensible play of mass and gravity in his hands. "The population was terrified of both of them, but most in the cartel considered Gray and his crew too young to be anything but loyal - easily manipulated, without connections or outside support." Kort smiled, grim and amused. "Unsophisticated."

Gibbs leaned in to watch the smirk playing around Kort's mouth. He had some idea of what connected Kort to Gray, now - the partnership that had set everything else in motion. But he'd never been given the first clue as to how the connection had come to be in the first place.

"What?" he pressed.

Kort shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

Fuck that. "Then it doesn't matter if you tell me."

Kort was beyond caring. "Fine. You're aware Gray was born in the United States?"

Gibbs nodded.

"I'm not quite sure what compelled his mother to return to Calera land with Gray. But she would have found the cartel more organized and dangerous than it was when she'd fled Conlon years before, and she was trapped. She finally appealed to the upper management in hopes of finding a way out, but Londono knew who she was and wasn't about to let her go. After he impregnated her with Sean – "

"Was that consensual?"

Kort tilted his head. "Define consensual. Londono isn't the sort of man one says no to. Neither was Conlon. I don't imagine she tried it with either one of them."

Gibbs waved a hand to get him to go on.

"She didn't tell Londono she was carrying his child. She knew it could trap her there forever. After Sean was born she tucked him away and went to Conlon with Gray, hoping a boy who was so obviously his son would inspire him to help them. That backfired, as you can imagine. She was a beautiful woman. Conlon enjoyed her company," Kort said flatly, "and ensured that they couldn't leave. When the Agency finally decided Conlon was too powerful, I set up my alibi and dropped into his house unannounced. I was known, trusted as an arms dealer that they dealt with frequently. I killed six of his guards, killed him, and torched the house. I didn't think anyone else was there."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"As it turns out," Kort smiled faintly, "Gray was there. I never saw him that day. But he knew who I was. I'd made a point to get to know everyone in the area, including the children with my supervisor's encouragement," he said drily, "as you know. Within months of Conlon's death I was withdrawn to work La Grenouille, but I kept up my contacts in Colombia. Years later I was approached by a hulking Ranger with an old photograph."

Kort hesitated.

"And?"

"It was a picture of me and a woman I'd had an affair with. She was useful in gaining entry into Conlon's circle," Kort shrugged. "Gray wanted out, and protection as well. He couldn't get out of the country without the CIA's help and decided it was time to call in his . . . favors."

"Favors."

"I used protection," Kort said tightly. "But the photograph was accompanied by a DNA sample."

"Bee," Gibbs guessed.

Kort nodded. "She must have wanted a child. I never saw the woman after I took out Conlon – I didn't know."

Gibbs scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Where's the mother now?"

"Dead," Kort said tonelessly. "She liked to date what she considered to be powerful men. Years after I'd moved on to Grenouille she was collateral damage in a hit against one of them. Gray was influential enough at that point to pay a family he trusted to look after Sean. He hid Bee with him."

Gibbs thought back to his basement and grinned a little. "Seems like they get along."

"They refuse to be separated," Kort said seriously. "Under any circumstances."

Gibbs laughed.

"It's worked out well for Gray," Kort agreed quietly.

Gibbs shook his head. "So Gray took care of your child and didn't give you up when he was interrogated. Pretty good for a kid you didn't even know."

Too good.

A shrug. "I knew him, somewhat," Kort said. "Gray was observant and tolerated within Conlon's camp. I thought he could be a useful source and cultivated him accordingly. After Conlon was killed Gray came to O'Donnell's attention. Never a good thing. I did what I could to help him survive, before I was withdrawn." Kort paused to twist the cap off of the water bottle and swallowed half of it down. "Anyway, I think Gray knew even then that he would be able to use everything he had on me eventually. He's always understood the value of information."

Yeah. Wherever would he have picked that up.

Gibbs eyed the man next to him and finally sat back in his seat, considering the elegantly paneled ceiling, the soft lighting. "You didn't tell Gray that you knew where his mother was because you didn't want him to find out that she'd sided with Londono."

Dawn was beginning to seep in through the windows, blanketing one side of the lobby in deep pink light. Traffic in and out was picking up. Kort rubbed the least damaged side of his face and eyed Gibbs' coffee. "Yes. Obviously."

"And Gray was pissed enough to retaliate by moving his brother and your daughter out of your sphere of influence." Gibbs weighed that. Gray had clearly pinned his hope for the future on finding his mother, reuniting his family.

But Kort had known for a long time now that there would be no happy reunion.

Gibbs decided he was a little surprised that Kort was still alive.

"She isn't . . . " Kort paused at Gibbs' flat stare. "I hardly know her."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway, it wasn't to retaliate," Kort sighed. "Or about my influence. I have no influence over any of them on the best of days. Gray moved them because there were bodies piling up and he wanted to keep Sean away from potential danger." Kort opened the water and sipped it slowly. "The fact that the move would drive me out of my mind was a bonus, nothing more."

"She why you've done all this, Trent?"

How the hell did Gibbs even know about her? It didn't seem likely that Gray told him outright – Gray horded intel like gold. But somehow the man had figured it out. "She's not on the table," Kort said coldly. "And I've just told you I hardly know her."

Gibbs shook his head. That wasn't a no. He looked down at his hands, covered in thin red scratches from his struggle with Gray. "You've been lying to him for years. And all this time you told me to be upfront with him."

"Yes," Kort said smoothly. "Well, as he said earlier – honesty is the one thing he's ever really asked of me." A slight pause. "But that wasn't to be. If he's going to get it from anyone it might as well be his white knight."

Gibbs looked at him angrily. Tired of the bullshit, and whatever twisted sarcasm was behind it.

Except Kort seemed too exhausted to be anything but matter of fact. He wasn't even looking at Gibbs.

_His white knight_. Dinozzo and Kort both had this weird hang-up. The insistence on impossible heroes, even though the two of them should know better. Gibbs certainly didn't play white knights anymore. Two decades ago he'd picked up his rifle and set out to win an unwinnable game. The field and all of its players had been dark for a very long time.

A fresh faced young woman in a white doctor's coat was heading determinedly toward them, Ducky looking on imperiously from the end of the hall. Kort rolled his eyes and stood up.

Gibbs stayed where he was. "You were right, you know," he said. "Not to tell him."

Kort grinned. "I didn't do it to be noble, Gibbs. His tender feelings aren't my concern."

"Just protecting your asset?" Gibbs studied the man standing over him. "You think he would have sent Sean to live with his mother if he'd known, don't you."

Kort shrugged. "At least one of them could have been raised by his parents. In the lap of luxury no less, protected by an army of guards rather than hunted by it."

Gibbs shook his head. "Sean wants to be with his brother."

"They don't know what they want," Kort dismissed. "An eight-year-old thinks he wants to be with his brother. He doesn't understand the cost. I'd wager he didn't want to get shot at in Colombia. Or cower in your basement, chased halfway around the world by a psychopath." He waved a hand almost violently, irritation finally creeping from his voice into his movements. "Children don't know what they want."

Gibbs leaned back in the plush seat, looking Kort over curiously.

The night that Dinozzo raged at him, when they were just back from Colombia, ran through his mind. It was Gibbs' willingness to walk away that really set Tony off. Dinozzo could forgive Gibbs for not being entirely honest, could forgive his many mistakes. Giving up was the one line that could not be crossed. The only one.

When Declan O'Donnell first tore into their lives Dinozzo had sought Gibbs out again and insisted that he couldn't walk away from Gray. You just have to be there, Tony'd said. You just have to listen.

"Actually, a lot of the time kids know exactly what they want," Gibbs said mildly. "We're the ones who make it complicated."

The doctor was standing in the lobby now, glancing impatiently between them. "Mr. Kort?"

Kort nodded at Gibbs' battered hands. "Gray said he wanted you to let him go," he said. "But you were right to hold on to him. And despite what Dr. Mallard may think you were right to let him fight. He needs to fight. He's like us, Gibbs." Kort looked at him frankly. No sleaze, no CIA cool. Just a tired man. "It's what he is. What's left." He tossed something onto the seat next to Gibbs and turned away.

Gray's knife.

Ironically, it should have satisfied him. Never go anywhere without a knife. A rule geared toward self-reliance. Independence.

But it wasn't the only thing his people carried. It wasn't the most important.

"No." Gibbs seized Kort's arm. "They took a lot from him, Kort. But that's not all he's got."

There had been a time when Gibbs was nothing but fight, and utterly independent. For a long time he'd allowed all the rest to fade, and be washed away. But that wasn't who he was anymore. His team wouldn't allow it. They'd pulled him back from the edge in Colombia, and used Gray to do it.

In Colombia he'd wondered if his agents had thrown away what made them who they were. If they'd obliterated the fine steel line that separated them from what they battled every day. Same as Gibbs had done so long ago. They _had_ thrown something away, to get him back. It was a bargain they might not have made if they'd known what it meant going in. But it was done. And now they were different, maybe less, maybe more than they'd been. All of them.

He glanced at the knife, and looked into Kort's eyes. Felt the faint sting in his battered hands, and welcomed it.

**x**

Gibbs let Gray sleep for hours. When the local wore off and Gray woke up Gibbs fed him, dumped him in the shower with a bag over his arm, and finally had him discharged. He escorted him to the agency car Dinozzo left for them, intent on hauling him home for more rest.

In the hospital Gray did what he was told. No arguments. No disappearing act. Gibbs didn't want to jinx it by trying to figure out why. As it turned out, Gray told him why as soon as they were in the car. Gibbs hadn't even started the engine.

"This car secure enough? Or do you need a locked down room at Langely?"

Right. Gibbs turned to face him. "No. Car's fine." These days every vehicle his team used was swept regularly for bugs.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "We knew a few things about O'Donnell's movements here from your conversation with him. We knew that he'd spent significant time in an isolated location with the federal agents he killed. It took a couple of days but we found that location. House not far from an airfield in North Carolina."

"You found the rest of their bodies?"

"Yeah." What was left of them.

"My mother one of them?"

"No. We didn't find any evidence to contradict what he said about her death – that she was shot and killed in Colombia."

Gray nodded, expressionless. A _go on_.

"We tracked him from the airfield in South Carolina to Bolivia. He had a safe house there. We had a team observe him to get visual confirmation. They placed a bomb in his car. He was killed instantly by the blast and the car and his body were burned beyond recognition. Officially O'Donnell's gone into hiding. As far as the cartel knows he's still alive."

"You see it?"

"No."

"You got this from a team in Bolivia?" Gray looked out his window, at the dreary concrete pillars of the parking complex. "O'Donnell threatened them. Or bought them off. He's not dead."

"Team's based in Brazil, actually." Gibbs smiled grimly. "And they're our people. He's dead, Gray."

"You don't know that. You don't have his body. You can buy anything down there – buy anyone. You paid them and he paid them, and now they're happy and he's alive."

Gibbs flexed his hands, shifting irritably in his seat. Screw dancing around the edges. He wasn't made for that. "That how it was for you? You went to the highest bidder?"

Gray didn't flinch. Didn't seem to care. "Yeah. That's how it was for me."

No. It wasn't – Gibbs knew that. But he wasn't sure Gray saw the difference. "I don't think so. Some people aren't for sale."

"You think you know me. And you think he's dead. But you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Good luck with your little crusade." He leaned forward and reached for the door handle. "You're gonna need it."

Gibbs locked the doors. "You did what you did in Colombia for your family. Same as we got O'Donnell for you. For _our_ family. He's dead, Gray."

"That's cute. But I'm not in your family."

"Tell that to Dinozzo and Ziva," Gibbs said, mostly serious. "They didn't really care what I had to say about it. I doubt they're going to listen to you."

"Let me out of this fucking car."

If Gray wasn't already beat up it might have gotten physical at that point.

"Maybe O'Donnell was able to buy off a lot of people," Gibbs continued mildly. "Or threaten them into giving him what he wanted. But not my team. And not these guys." He looked away, considering options. "You want to talk to them?"

Gray turned to face him. "Talk to who?"

"The team that took out O'Donnell. They're here in DC now. You want to see them?"

"Yeah. I want to see them." He said it like he didn't believe Gibbs could follow through. Like he'd just been asked if he wanted to go to the moon.

Gibbs grinned and started up the car. "Put on your seatbelt."

He called ahead ten minutes before they arrived, and then again when they went through the security gate.

Pete met them in the lobby of the condo complex. "Gray!"

The kid gaped at him and Gibbs laughed out loud.

Pete gave Gray a cautious fist bump and stepped back to take in the damage. "Wish I could say you're looking good. What happened?" His eyes settled on the fresh cast on Gray's hand. "I heard you got shot," he said. And added pointedly, "In the leg."

Gray's eyes darted around, up to the balcony running around the atrium, at the hallways leading off the main lobby. He stepped closer to Gibbs. Like he felt safer, when he was closer to him. Gibbs almost startled.

"What is this place?" Gray asked.

"No worries. Just got in a couple days ago, but as far as we can tell this is where Senators come to have affairs. We're locked up tighter than the Pentagon." Pete gestured to the elevator along the far wall. "Let's go up – Rodge'll throw a fit if I hog you down here."

In the elevator Pete chattered about the take-out Brazilian grill down the street. In the hallway he went on about the all-night diner that delivered whole peach pies.

Finally he ushered them into a light-filled apartment. Rodge sat in the dining room at a gigantic table, sorting through a thousand photographs. His photographs.

"Rodge." Gray grinned faintly. "Fuck me. It's really you."

The entirely enormous man got up and bound toward them, looking happy until he took in the cast and the bruised face. He stopped short, and after a few seconds consideration patted Gray gingerly on the shoulder. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing."

The man raised his eyebrows, and threw a very brief, very menacing look at Gibbs.

"Drop it," Gray said.

Silence. And then –

"Yeah. Fine," Rodge said grudgingly. "I'm dropping it. So what are you doing here? C'mon in, find a seat that isn't covered in crap. Want something to drink? You want juice? We got guava. And uh . . . mango. And we've got about ten pounds of leftover churrasco. You hungry? This stuff is delicious, you should have some." Rodge opened the fridge with a flourish.

"Yeah – juice. Thanks."

Gibbs suppressed a grin. Gray couldn't take his eyes off the men in front of him, or the piles of work around them. He was so taken aback he was being _polite_.

Rodge steered Gray to a seat at the table and set a glass in front of him, pointedly ignoring Gibbs. Pete silently set Gibbs up with a cup of coffee and sat down along with Rodge across from Gray.

Rodge grinned and slapped his hands down in front of him, making the table shake. "Well what's up, man? If you're here to tell us you're going back to Colombia to rescue some sorry old fart from his well-deserved kidnapping then I'm taking you as my hostage right now. And not to go hiking in Colombia. I haven't been on vacation in weeks, you believe that? So I'm picturing Disney World. Space Mountain, VIP passes. What do you say?"

Gray turned to Gibbs. "Can we talk here?"

Gibbs nodded.

"Gibbs thinks Diablo's dead," Gray said flatly.

"Yeah," Rodge said easily. "That news is several days old. Where've you been?"

Instead of relaxing Gray seemed to get more tense. "How do you know? That you got him?"

The men exchanged glances, and Gibbs nodded. Pete got up and walked out of the room, returning a few seconds later with a cardboard box full of documents. He took out a thin folder and walked around the table to sit next to Gray, flipping through the pages.

"This was taken about an hour before the hit," Pete said, and placed a photo in front of Gray. O'Donnell and two other men were walking toward a black sedan.

Pete took out a second photo, this one showing them getting into the car, O'Donnell in the back left. "We had a locator on the car at this point. The vehicle didn't stop between the time it picked up O'Donnell, in this photo, and the time it was destroyed. You know that's a good indication that he was still in the car."

A third photo, the same car moving along a rough road. "This is almost an hour later, less than a minute before detonation." Same plates. O'Donnell still in the back left. The same expensive looking blue shirt and sunglasses were just visible through the slightly open window.

"Best glass money can buy and he rode around with the windows open," Rodge said almost fondly. "He really was nuts."

"He opened the window very briefly," Pete said. "Our photographer was able to get a shot at that point. This is less than a minute after detonation." Pete slid the next photo toward Gray. The twisted frame of the car was just visible through an inferno of flame. It had been blown clean off the road into the brush. "Our team was first on scene."

"We were the_ only_ ones on scene," Rodge said. "We got him on the way to his place. Nothing around for miles. Your uh – " he waved a hand in Gibbs' direction without looking at him. "The intel was good."

"We put out the fire and hauled the car to a ravine close by to destroy it. This is the interior prior to clean up, about fifteen minutes after the initial explosion." Pete handed photos of the blackened shell and its three burnt corpses to Gray.

Gray picked up the one that showed the body in the back left, and then returned to the first photo, placing the before and after side by side.

"These are close-ups of O'Donnell," Pete said, and slid three more dark photos toward Gray.

Gray spread them out and went between them for several minutes. Pete reached for the magnifying glass sitting at the end of the table and placed it next to him.

"Who took these?"

"I did," Rodge said.

Gray kept going back to one photo. A body shot, after the explosion. He picked up the magnifying glass and stared at the image. "This is his watch," he said finally.

"It looks like the one he's wearing before he gets in," Pete agreed.

"No." Gray's hand was shaking very slightly, the tremor only noticeable from the movement of the photograph he held. "This is it."

He put down the photo, picked it up again to look at it, and shoved it away. "He had the band custom made. He likes real fancy metalwork." Gray sat there in silence for a few seconds, eyes worlds away, the three men watching him. "And he always got stuff custom. He wanted everything to be original. Had a lot of weird watches – that's a snake, face of the watch in its teeth. He had that made in Mexico, one time. Color's different from the fire. Shape's the same."

Kid was so quiet, most of the time. But Gibbs had the impression he'd only been able to stop, at the end of that, because he'd run out of breath.

Pete picked up the photo and peered at the blackened wrist. "Doesn't look like a normal band. Could be a serpent." He set the photo back down. "Could be debris."

Gray stacked the photos and handed them back to Pete. "That's his watch."

"You would know," Pete said agreeably.

"Yeah."

They were quiet for a minute, Gray still staring at the pile of photos.

"Thanks," he said finally.

"You're welcome," Pete said.

"How did – can I ask?" Gray glanced at Gibbs.

"Ask whatever you want."

"He was paranoid," Gray said. "His routes were cleared. Cars were secured, always. That," his eyes flicked to the photos, "that shouldn't have been possible."

"He was traveling lighter than usual, trying to be inconspicuous. We were doing the same, moving a little faster than we normally would. Our intel was good, we were lucky there. Your friends here in DC wanted us to go in hot." Rodge shrugged. "Things went our way."

Gibbs' eyebrows went up, and Pete's gaze flicked to his, amused. He knew what Gibbs was thinking. No one who didn't really know Rodge ever expected modesty.

Gray looked like he was trying to relax in the chair and couldn't get his spine to unbend. "Thanks," he said again.

"He killed federal agents," Gibbs pointed out, "targeted their families, killed American allies overseas. Taking care of dirtbags like Declan O'Donnell is our job. If we'd done it right he would have been dead before you were born. We're the ones who should be thanking you, for your help. The information you got from him on that call helped us track him down."

"Here here," Pete grinned, and tipped his cup of coffee toward Gray.

Gray looked away quickly. He turned to Rodge, who'd ignored the whole exchange.

"So what are you working on now?"

"This guy." Rodge held up a photograph of a slight, silver-haired man. "Know him?"

"No." Gray frowned at the picture. "Who is that?"

"Cop says he's a runner out of Camp Two, all the way to Europe. Pretty high up."

"Yeah, she would know. Camp Two." Gray stared at the photo like it was a movie.

"We should get going," Gibbs said. "Gray hasn't actually been to bed yet."

Pete looked at his watch and frowned. It was the middle of the afternoon.

"I slept at the hospital," Gray muttered.

"Hm." Rodge propped his chin in his hand like that was fascinating.

"It's a drive back to my place," Gibbs said. "You want to hit the head here?"

"Yeah." Gray got up and glanced between them, moving toward the hallway Pete pointed out. "Don't incapacitate my ride, Rodge."

"Ooh, big word."

"Don't do it."

Rodge held up his hands innocently.

They waited until the door at the end of the hall closed.

"He looks like someone much bigger than him and much smaller than me beat the shit out of him." Rodge looked Gibbs over with a decidedly feral gleam. Gibbs hadn't noticed quite how large Rodge was the last time they met.

"Someone your size, maybe," Rodge added.

"Guess he was. But not by anyone who actually wanted to beat him up. Not this time."

"You?"

"No." Gibbs weighed the advantages of fessing up. With Rodge staring at him they seemed pretty clear. "Kort."

"Shorty?" Rodge either didn't believe him or tipped immediately toward giving Kort the benefit of the doubt. "Why?"

"Gray insisted on it. Believe me, Shorty got the short end of that stick."

"What about his hand? That's not from a fight."

Now he felt like a bad parent. Ducky was right, as usual. They should have stopped it. Though how they were supposed to stop a berserker Gray without causing any additional injuries – hell, fatalities – he did not know.

"He hit a car."

Rodge frowned. "A car accident?"

"No. He punched a car until he broke it. The car and his hand."

The man looked at him almost in wonder. "He lost his temper?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "He's having a pretty bad week."

"I didn't know it was possible for him to lose his temper." Rodge considered it. "I don't think I knew he had a temper."

"Yeah. Well. He does."

"Everyone has a temper, you idiot," Pete said calmly. Like he'd never actually experienced the thing himself. "It's probably healthy that he's expressing it, now that he can. Though hitting a car has its drawbacks." He rearranged a few photos in the stack in front of him and tucked them away again. "Hopefully he'll figure out that there are better ways to vent."

When he finished rearranging his file Pete leveled Gibbs with an odd look. Gibbs couldn't interpret it.

"The temper I believe, no problem," Pete said finally. "The way he trusts you – that one I didn't think was possible."

Gibbs couldn't respond.

"Look after him," Pete added, and picked up the box to return it to its room.

"Huh." Rodge glanced at the closed hallway door, at Pete's retreating figure, and back to Gibbs. "So. You want some juice, Gibbs?"

Gibbs' eyes landed on the florescent yellow dregs at the bottom of Gray's glass.

"Ah, no. Thanks."


	63. Something You Needed?

_a/n: This chapter begins about eight hours before the last chapter ended._

**Chapter 63: Something You Needed?**

Ziva found Tony and McGee in the hospital's plush cafeteria. They were sitting in a candlelit booth next to a window overlooking the city, ogling the pretty waitress placing a drink covered in whipped cream in front of McGee.

Ziva asked for tea and Tony ordered another hazelnut macchiato, staring at the waitress's behind as she walked away.

"Why don't we come here when we get hurt?" His voice could only be described as appreciative. "Did you know this menu is available to the patients? Did you see the wine list?" He looked at Ziva plaintively and held up a leather bound menu.

"We don't come here because we're government employees, Tony, on the taxpayer's dime." McGee set about the complicated task of mixing the little tower of cream into his coffee. "We're wards of the state, not heirs to cartel fortunes."

"_Kort _arranged this!" Tony protested. "Last time I checked the CIA was a government agency." His voice should have been louder, Ziva thought, but thick carpeting and the drapes framing the window behind him softened it.

They paused as the waitress returned with a gleaming black tea service.

"We are to return to the office by 1400," Ziva said. "Gibbs wants us to resume identifying locations and targets that Hanlan has described." McGee looked at his watch and groaned. The sun was just coming up, throwing the bags under his eyes into stark relief.

Ziva relayed what Ducky said about Gray's prospects for recovery, that they would have to wait and see, really. When she fell silent Tony watched her check the teapot, still steeping, and put a slice of lemon in her cup. Ziva could feel his eyes on her.

She used to disguise what she was thinking no matter who was watching her. But she didn't usually bother with the team anymore. She wasn't entirely sure it would be effective—they knew her too well. And she had no desire to mislead them anyway. Gibbs had shown her, and Tony, how to really be part of a team. It was territory won inch by slow inch, and she prized it all the more for how hard she fought for it.

McGee was watching her now, too.

"What else?" Tony prompted.

Ziva checked the teapot again and poured. She would need the caffeine just to get home. "I am not sure. But Gibbs - he seems . . . "

McGee tensed and ducked his chin so that he could stare at her more directly. "Gibbs seems what?"

Ziva glanced around out of habit. Gibbs was still in the building, after all.

"Well . . . worried?" she said finally.

McGee stared at her, unblinking like a fish.

"Worried." He sounded the word out as if uncertain of the meaning. Perhaps he was, in the context of Gibbs.

Ziva turned the teacup in its saucer impatiently. "That is not the right word. Uneasy. Or uncertain – "

Tony had watched the strain settle into Gibbs over the last few weeks. It wasn't in his expression, or his voice. Those were the same as they always were. You could see it in the way he moved - swift and hard, and with far more force than was necessary. It gave him an air of violence that wasn't normal.

But he'd seen Gibbs like that before, in the few cases that came close to being as big and potentially bad as this one. The man was stoic, not a robot.

"We're kind of in the middle of a hairy operation, Ziva," he said. "Everyone's on edge."

"No." She shook her head. "This is more than that. Ducky scolded both Kort and Gibbs like a pair of schoolboys, and in the end the two of them seemed to _be_ schoolboys. Gibbs looked unsure of himself. And Kort," she tucked a stray curl behind her ear, "I think that Kort is off the trail."

"Off the rails," Tony said.

"Well that's true." McGee stirred his coffee emphatically. "He's obsessed. He put in more hours last week than _Gibbs_."

Tony glanced between the two of them and scratched the back of his head. "He'll be fine," he said dismissively. "He's Gibbs."

The reason Gibbs didn't do _worried_ was simple. What a leader showed his team would pick up, like sponges hungry for direction. Gibbs was the best leader Tony had ever known, and the man built up his own legend for a reason. Tony was pretty sure that 99% of that reason was sitting at this table with him, considering his words.

They had to believe in Gibbs. Every single one of them needed the unshakable confidence that was _Gibbs._

"Yes," Ziva said slowly, "I know. I just . . ."

McGee nodded. "It's just this case. It's hitting him hard." He picked up his empty coffee cup and sipped, looking down with bleary betrayal when all he got was air. "Gibbs does the job because Gibbs takes care of people. But these kids are tough cause the job isn't what they need, really. It's like . . . " he waved the cup and looked around for the waitress. "The job isn't enough this time. Not the way it's supposed to be, for Gibbs."

Tony let his eyes drift to Ziva. She did the eyebrow tilt, quirking her lips back at him.

It was true, what Gibbs said that night in his kitchen. When O'Donnell was lurking in DC, taunting them. Gibbs reminded them then that McGee was good at more than computers. Tim was good at family, too.

"C'mon, McGoo." Tony stood up and wrested the oversized mug from Tim's hand. "No more caffeine. Time to go home."

**x**

That afternoon Tony strode into the bullpen feeling nothing less than triumphant. He'd slept, showered, and redressed, and still had thirty seconds to spare on Gibbs' deadline.

"Where's the boss?"

McGee stood and walked toward Tony's desk, a fifteen-inch stack of photographs in his hands.

"Whoa, Probie, where are you going with - "

The crash of the stack onto his desk cut him off.

"Casino in Caracas. Money laundering," Tim grunted. "You're it."

Tony eyed the pile. It wasn't even thick paper.

"What happened to our Feebie friends?"

Since Dargas and one of his subordinates' heads had turned up at the Navy Yard, agents attached to Fornell's FBI unit had been "assisting" NCIS with their "investigation." Tony had Gibbs' blessing to "delegate" work to them.

"Third precinct pulled in five suspected members of the Vatos Locos last night on drug charges, some pretty high up," McGee said. "Fornell wanted the agents assigned to the Navy Yard to check them out for a Calera connection."

No help from the Feebies then.

"And where is the boss?"

"I believe he was going to stay at the hospital until Gray woke and was discharged." Ziva's voice was preoccupied. And pretty much disembodied. She was at her desk, hidden behind stacks of Colombian prison files.

Two of the targets they had identified so far were incarcerated at a massive federal prison in Medellín. That could prove inconvenient, eventually.

But at least they knew where those two were.

Tony frowned as he dropped into his chair. It was just after two in the afternoon on a weekday. Unless Gibbs had lost his memory and run away to Mexico, or been arrested and hauled down to Mexico, he was always at work in the middle of the day. Early in the day and late in the day too, for that matter.

He checked his watch again, and decided to give it an hour.

**x**

Half a block from Gibbs' place the car rolled to a stop behind a school bus dropping kids at the corner. It was a beautiful afternoon, yellow sun slanting through dark February trees, painting the whole neighborhood in gold and amber. The kids tumbling from the bus wore bright hats and laughed as they shoved each other across the street.

From inside the car it looked happy and idyllic, boys moving across the windshield like pixals on a screen. Pictures from some other life, in another world.

Gibbs waited for the bus to turn and accelerated down his block. When he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine he sat there for a long moment, head back against the seat, and let the stillness wash over him. He'd been tired when he left his desk last night. Intent on getting home, to the peace and the darkness, and collapsing into sleep.

Last night felt like a lifetime ago.

When Gibbs glanced over to the boy sitting across from him Gray was looking right at him.

Gibbs hadn't actually asked if coming back to his house was alright.

"Have dinner plans, Gray?"

Gray shook his head.

"You need to get in touch with anybody?"

Another silent no. There was some curiosity in his eyes, though.

Gibbs smiled to himself. He was getting better at reading him.

"Sure? You can use my cell."

Gray didn't respond to that at all. He just looked at Gibbs, wary now.

Gibbs let a little of the smile come out, because two could play at this game - two _were_ playing the game - and Gray was getting better at reading him, too. Gibbs reached into the backseat to grab the thin jacket Gray was wearing before the nurses peeled it off him.

"Found a debit card in the front pocket and eight hundred in cash in the sleeve." Gray would know they'd searched it anyway. His clothes had been picked through, washed, dried and folded within an hour of check-in. "Didn't find a phone anywhere."

Gray reached for the jacket with his cast, shoulder for his good hand still too sore to move. Gibbs leaned forward and gently folded it over his forearm, speaking off-handedly as he pulled back. "Tuesday's two for one pizzas here at Casa Gibbs. If you can stay."

Still Gray said nothing, but he didn't need to. The question was clear in his eyes.

Gibbs tilted his head toward his house. "There are a few things we could go over. And Dinozzo says the pizza's not half bad."

Gray glanced at the house. "He here?"

The voice was unreadable. Gibbs ran the tone through his mind again and studied Gray's face. But there was no indication one way or the other.

"No. He can come over, if you want."

Gray shook his head and got out of the car.

**x**

It was never until Gibbs wasn't there that you realized how busy Gibbs really was.

An hour hadn't even passed and his landline was ringing for the fiftieth time. Abby dropped a load of classified prison schematics on Ziva's desk and swiveled to pick it up.

"Bossman's phone!"

The agents grinned from behind their piles.

" . . . Clearly I'm someone who works with the bossman. And you are?"

She listened intently, then pulled the phone away from her ear and tossed it back onto its cradle. "Hung up on me. Gotta go!"

Tony glanced at McGee. Tim was watching Abby's departure wistfully.

"Now that is what I call efficiency, McSmitten. We should get all of Gibbs' calls redirected to the lab."

McGee sighed in agreement, but was too absorbed in Abby's departure to form words, much less re-rig the phones.

Abby hadn't even skipped out of sight before Ziva's cell started to ring.

"Agent David. . . . Cassie! Hello . . . Oh, yes, that was our co-worker . . . Yes certainly, I will be right down."

"Cassie is waiting at the back entrance," Ziva announced, and stood. "Apparently Gibbs has been letting them in through the evidence garage so that they will not appear in our security logs."

Tony shoved back from his desk, eager for a break. Looking at security footage of a casino's dodgy customers wasn't nearly as much fun as going to a casino, no matter how hot the cartel wives were.

He dug vending machine change out of his junk drawer. "I'll open up the lounge."

Ziva nodded, heading for the elevator, and Tony went to Gibbs' desk to get the keys. Cassie and Tomas, along with all of their most sensitive intel on the cartel, had been set up in an out of the way third floor conference room, sealed with an electronic superkey that McGee had cooked up.

Tony removed Gibbs' desk keys from their hiding spot and opened the secure drawer where Gibbs kept his lockbox. He entered the seven digit pin and lifted the lid on the box where he'd seen Gibbs put the key, every day, for the past week.

It wasn't there.

"McGee." Tony stared into the box. "You been upstairs today?"

"No." McGee looked up from his truckload of financials. "Why – ? Oh. Uh oh." He stood, sending a cascade of paper to the floor.

Tony grabbed his sidearm from his desk and headed for the stairwell.

The door was closed when they got up there. Tony tested the handle gently.

It moved smoothly under his fingers. Unlocked.

_On three_, he mouthed to McGee. _One, two . . ._

Tony flung the door open and stepped through, Sig raised.

Kort looked up slowly, no expression at all on his face. "Something you needed, Dinozzo?"

Tony lowered his gun reluctantly. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Kort's attention returned to his computers, three laptops spread haphazardly on the table in front of him. "I used the key."

Tony glanced around the room. It looked pretty much the same as the last time he'd come up. A few more photographs taped to the walls. More documents from the boxes stacked against the walls were strewn around the table.

"Cassie and Tomas are on their way up," Tony said.

Kort nodded absently.

Tony gestured at the door. "You should keep this locked."

Kort raised an eyebrow, focus unwavering from the screens in front of him. "Cassie and Tomas are on their way up," he said.

"Right."

Tony walked to the windows and made a show of looking out at the dull view, just so he could turn around and check out whatever Kort was working on. One of the screens showed a map, what looked like a city. One had a street-level photograph of a building. The third, the one directly in front of Kort, was a crowded spreadsheet.

Kort ignored him.

This was usually where Tony would pick a fight.

McGee stood in the doorway while Tony strolled over to one of the walls and studied the huge map they'd stuck up there, showing the western coast of Colombia. It had colored pins all over it – their progress so far on the search for one man, a trafficker close to Londono. Known locations, suspected locations. Recent sightings.

Until the day Kort introduced them to Gray, Tony had been able to chalk every move the man made up to self-interest – to greed and ambition, pure and simple. But Kort's reasons for going alone into that vicious fight with Gray, for sitting in this room and grinding through hour after hour of intel, were as opaque now as they had been in that park nine months ago. Gibbs' team had taken a chance on Kort out of desperation. Kort had taken a chance on them too. Had shown them restricted photographs of the Calera camp. Had introduced them to Gray.

And now Tony didn't want to pick a fight with Kort so much as he wanted to ask him _why_. But Kort wouldn't answer that.

Tony leaned in to study the thin black outline of the coast, wondering again what the beaches were like there. "So. Gray is with Gibbs today."

Kort grunted something that sounded like agreement.

It felt weird to ask Kort anything and expect an answer. But Kort had always been weird about Gray, anyway . . .

Tony jingled the change in his pocket and moved casually down the wall, to a photograph of a man in surfer shorts walking a dog. Their most recent photograph of the trafficker. "You think he'll be alright?"

Tony glanced over and watched a shallow grin ghost over Kort's beat-up face. "Gibbs? Couldn't say."

"Gibbs is always alright," Tony dismissed.

Kort's arm stretched out to turn a page in the open binder propped on the chair next to him, the whisper of paper against paper loud in the quiet. He seemed to read whatever was there intently. "Of course. Well then, anyone with him should be fine, shouldn't they."

That was _your guess is as good as mine_. Wasn't it?

Cassie stepped through the doorway at that moment. She grinned at McGee, nodding hello. Then she saw Kort, and the grin slipped from her face.

"What happened to you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Where is Gray?"

**x**

Gray stood by the passenger door as Gibbs got out, and they considered each other over the hood of the car. Kid had hair falling in his eyes but didn't move to brush it away. Course, neither of his arms was really working.

His gaze wandered over the neat yard, down the street, and back to Gibbs. "Why don't you just tell me when I should come in?"

Gibbs cocked his head toward the house. "Now's pretty good. Food can be here in thirty."

"That's not what I meant."

Of course not. Rest and food never seemed high on the list of priorities.

"Yeah, I know. Come inside anyway, and we'll talk about it."

Gray hesitated by the car door. He was calmer now than he was before, but still looked dangerous and remote. The bruise spreading across his face only made him look harder. Completely out of place in Gibbs' cheerful, tidy suburb.

But he came around the car after a moment, and followed Gibbs into the house without a word.

"You want something to drink?"

Gibbs headed through to the kitchen while Gray hung back in the living room, late sun casting a halo of light around his dark form. "No."

Gibbs filled a glass with water and walked back into the living room. He sipped it slowly, looking Gray over.

Gray looked away.

It made Gibbs' stomach tighten unpleasantly. Gray didn't back down. Never had before, anyway. And he still couldn't read the kid well enough to just _know_.

"Do you have a problem with Dinozzo, Gray?"

"No."

Gibbs grinned a little. Gray's face had been neutral, maybe a hint of surprise. But Gibbs could see through that now. There was no surprise. And something was going on with Dinozzo.

Gibbs waved a hand at the couch. "Sit."

Gray should have had to hobble there, given the blows he'd taken the night before. But his movements were graceful even now.

Gibbs took the armchair next to him. "If there's a problem you should tell me."

Gray shrugged. "No problem."

Gibbs waited for him to go on. But Gray seemed immune to that kind of pressure.

"If you want to help us track down the rest of the cartel I'm the one who'll decide how closely you two work together. If there's a problem you're going to want me to know about it."

Gray looked at him carefully, sifting through the subtle ultimadem._ If you want to help us . . ._

"I don't have a problem with anyone on your team," he said finally.

"Except Dinozzo," Gibbs prompted.

Gray looked away again, some frustration there, and Gibbs could see what Rodge and Pete were talking about. Gray was letting some of what he was thinking filter through.

"It's nothing."

"So tell me."

"You a micromanager?"

"Only when I need to be." Gibbs sipped the water slowly. "You're a civilian, underage, a target. You've been losing control. Not managing this situation would be irresponsible."

Gray was quiet for a minute, thinking about it. "He's nice. Tony."

Again Gibbs waited. For nothing. "Yeah?"

"Couple days after the FBI took me in that first time?"

Gibbs nodded.

"He was waiting for me. After school."

Something coiled in Gibbs. He trusted Tony implicitly, but Gray didn't. "And?"

"Almost killed him. He told me I had to get in the car, take a trip. Didn't search me or anything," Gray shrugged. "So I went. He took me to a basketball court way out of town. Said if I didn't play he wouldn't drive me back."

Gibbs grinned wryly.

He got a tiny smile in return. "I punched him. He said that was a foul."

Gibbs laughed.

Gray looked down at Gibbs' couch, inspecting the old fabric. "He plays hard."

Gibbs nodded. Waited. Got nothing. "So what's the problem?"

Gray kept his eyes on the couch. "I used him for Burnett's background. Said I needed it for a friend."

Gibbs had figured Tony was the one to slip the stalker's record to Gray. "So? That was true, wasn't it?"

"He didn't want to give it to me, said it was against the rules. Told him he owed me. But he got Diego into that program. And he helped when we got tailed by O'Donnell. And when you got me out of that FBI bust." Gray looked to him for confirmation.

Gibbs nodded. Waited.

"Now with O'Donnell and the cartel . . ." Gray cleared his throat. "He's mixed up in it." The kid's eyes rose to Gibbs', strange. "But he's not like us."

"What do you mean?"

Gray watched him carefully. "Like Kort and me. And you."

"No," Gibbs said finally. "He isn't. But he can handle it."

Gray went back to studying Gibbs' couch. "It was a trap," he said. "Getting you out of the camp. If we helped you and we had Hernandez too, you would owe us, plus there'd be leverage. You wouldn't have any choice."

"I gave Tony a choice," Gibbs said.

"Had stuff on you and Ziva." Gray went on as if he hadn't heard. "But there isn't anything on – "

"Gray, listen to me."

Gray stilled.

"I gave everyone on my team the option to back out before we tracked down O'Donnell." He waited until he could see that sink in. "None of them took it. Tony and the rest of them have their own reasons for wanting the cartel."

"He's not like us," Gray said again. "McGee either."

Gibbs downed the rest of his water. "No," he said. "They're not. But they don't need to be. I'm not putting them in the field on this one."

Gray seemed to accept that.

"And you don't need Dinozzo to owe you. He takes care of people for free."

Gray shrugged. Gibbs didn't know if that was acceptance, but at least he had a handle on the problem now. On one of them, anyway. "You know, you don't owe us anything, either."

"What's that mean?"

Gibbs fiddled with the glass in his hands, turning it gently, slowly. "Last night you said you were backing out. Leaving town."

"Changed my mind."

Gibbs nodded. "Good."

"So, when should I come - "

He'd give Gray one thing - kid was relentless. Gibbs talked over him. "But you know, you said a few different things, last night."

Gray's eyes shuttered. He already knew.

"Change your mind about all of it?"

Gray didn't say a word.

Gibbs was tired of the game.

"You even remember the fight, Gray?"

Gray's free hand flexed and he looked down, startled, at the cast on his fist.

As if he had forgotten it was there.

Whatever they'd injected at the hospital to numb the injury would be long gone by now. Gibbs glanced from the cast to Gray's face. "You alright?"

Gray looked up, eyes bright through the hair falling into them. And laughed.

**x**

McGee's computer gave the alert that afternoon. But McGee's computer dinged and chimed and whistled on a fairly regular basis. The rest of the team ignored it.

Ziva and Tony noticed, though, when McGee leaned close into the screen, like he did whenever he was about to pry something impossible out of the ether. And then he went rigid. Like he always did when he'd hit a nugget of intel gold.

"Got something?" Tony asked.

"This alias . . . " McGee frowned and opened another program. "This was flagged . . . "

Tony got up. "Who and where, McGee."

"Michael Stern. Also goes by Michael Magavern," McGee said, "and about ten other names. He has ties to several businesses operated by the Calera cartel, Kort identified him as a gun for hire. I set an alert . . ."

"_Where_, McGee?"

"Flew from Accra to Paris yesterday." McGee scanned the screen quickly. "Due into Philadelphia . . . this morning," McGee declared. He looked up. "Trains and buses from Philly don't even require ID. He could be here now."

Tony took out his phone and called Gibbs.

**x**

Gibbs snagged the prescriptions from Ducky and a bottle of Motrin from the downstairs bathroom. He called the pizza place and put in an order for two large pies, filled a glass with water, and dug a box of crackers out from the pantry. The essentials - pills, liquid, carbs - he set in front of Gray.

The kid watched the operation lazily and didn't comment. Or move.

Then again, he'd probably have to use his teeth to get the cap off that bottle. Gibbs leaned forward to twist it open and shook two tablets onto a napkin next to the water. "These are probably stale," he said, waving at the crackers. "But you should eat something with that. Real food's on the way."

Gray was still smirking from his fit of laughter before, expression loose and dark. "Thanks." He looked at the pills on the table without reaching for them.

"Don't work if you don't take them," Gibbs said.

"Those don't work either way."

Gibbs paused. "You want something else?"

Gray glanced at his own hand, discolored fingers poking out from the metal and plastic cast. The entire mess was grotesquely swollen. "You don't have what I want, Gibbs," he said.

Gibbs squinted out toward the street. Gray turned down everything but local anesthetic in the hospital. This hadn't actually occurred to him.

Which was pretty stupid, in retrospect. "You using again, Gray?"

"No."

Gibbs took his time, searching for the tell. One he'd never yet been able to find in Gray's face.

"You want me to piss in a cup?"

Gibbs kind of did. "No," he said. "Just want the truth."

"Well," Gray's voice was soft, cool. "That's in short supply."

"Yeah," Gibbs sighed. "Always is."

Gray stared at him. It was actually chilling.

"I didn't lie to you. Never knew where your mom was," Gibbs said. "Kort doesn't whisper his secrets my way."

Gray didn't really react to that. He'd gone hard again, and impossible to read. Gibbs refocused on the injured hand resting carelessly at Gray's side. And the issue at hand.

Years back he'd been able to bull his way through PTSD and amnesia. But he'd never even come close to laughing them off.

"I guess memory loss is a funnier issue for you than it was for me."

"Hilarious," Gray confirmed.

Gibbs had discussed this with Ducky, obliquely. "Doc tells me the drugs they gave you in Colombia could be part of the problem with your memory now."

"It's not that bad," Gray muttered.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. He'd heard that same mutter from countless Marines and agents. And now kids. None of them particularly believable. "Then tell me how bad it is."

No retreat possible here. Eventually Gray tried to go around. "Holly's got a lady at the clinic's been helping with it," he said finally. "It's better."

"You missed your meeting at the clinic last week," Gibbs countered.

Gray shrugged, unconcerned.

"I didn't get the impression those kinds of meetings were optional."

"Optional for what?" he challenged.

"For recovery," Gibbs said coolly.

Gray hadn't expected that, and backed down. "Was busy."

"Uh huh. Busy hiding from Kort?"

"Yeah," Gray said easily.

"You didn't go to any of your crew's safe houses last week. Not even the one Kort doesn't know." Cassie told Gibbs that Gray had been totally out of touch with all of them, even with Sean. And she said this wasn't the first time. "Why?"

Gray didn't answer.

"You ever lose time with Sean? The other kids?"

Gray was looking right at him. But his eyes were far away, busy elsewhere. "You didn't get this from last night."

"Not entirely."

"From what?"

"First time, when you pulled your gun on Dinozzo. In Colombia," Gibbs said. "I didn't get the impression you knew where you were."

Gray was silent, gazing at his hands. And then, weirdly, he relaxed back into the couch. He caught Gibbs' confusion and shrugged. "Didn't realize you've known since then."

So he'd been worried about Gibbs' reaction if he did find out.

"I've seen it before," Gibbs said. "It's not uncommon." For someone with Gray's history it'd be more surprising if his mind hadn't come up with a way to shove it all down.

"So I've heard."

"You have any memory of what happened with Dinozzo?"

A longer silence. "Cut Ziva free. Got the bags. Had my gun on him."

"You don't remember how that happened?"

"He surprise me?"

He looked unconcerned. But Gibbs could see that Gray was intensely uncomfortable. It was in his posture - holding himself a little differently than usual - and in his hand on the couch, flat and motionless.

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "He surprised you. Same as Abby last week, I think."

Gray gazed at him neutrally and said nothing. Gray-speak for miserable, as far as Gibbs could tell.

"That ever happen at home?"

Gray tilted his head. A nod.

Gibbs hazarded a guess. "That's why you didn't go home last week."

Another head tilt. And then, as if it was nothing, "Bad days I don't go home."

"How often is that?"

"After Colombia, with you." Gray paused to see if he understood and Gibbs nodded. Cassie told them that Gray was gone for at least three weeks last May – significantly longer than the team was. Wherever the kid went after they were debriefed and released by the CIA, it wasn't home.

But that had been an unusually bad series of days.

"When else?"

"After Diego, when I got shot." Gray gestured to his leg. "Spent the night here."

Gibbs nodded. He remembered Gray telling Cassie that it would be better if he spent the night at Gibbs house. But -

"I thought you might have stayed here because some of the other kids were angry," Gibbs said. "About the way Diego died."

"Yeah, they were. I kicked him out."

Gibbs hadn't known that. "Because he was using?"

"Have to be clean to stay at the house," Gray said. "That's rule number one, Gibbs."

"So you didn't go home because you wanted to give them time to cool off," Gibbs clarified.

Gray sighed. "This matters?"

"Yeah. It matters."

Gray stared at the coffee table, organizing his thoughts. "I didn't go home to give me time. They weren't going to . . . _cool off_. I threw him out. He's dead."

Gibbs hesitated, aware it probably wouldn't go over well. "You did the right thing."

"Diego dead can't be the right thing," Gray said, colorless. "Why does this matter?"

Gibbs let it go. "When else?"

"You know," Gray waved vaguely, tiredly at Gibbs, "this past week."

"When else?"

"That's it."

Gibbs watched him closely. That was hard to believe.

"Told you it wasn't that bad."

Gibbs didn't respond, trying to figure it out. Either Gibbs' team taking the kid to Colombia had been the start of it or something here had changed for Gray.

"What," Gray said tersely.

"Ever seriously hurt anyone?"

Gray looked at him.

"Unintentionally, I mean. When you're out of it."

"Don't remember everyone with Dex. Or the cartel," he said stiffly.

"Afterwards," Gibbs clarified again. "When you knew you were with friends."

"Kort," Gray said. "Last night." He shifted and winced, and finally leaned forward for the tablets on the table, gulping them with the water. Gibbs nudged the box of crackers toward him and Gray perfunctorily swallowed one.

"Who else?"

"I - what do you mean? What's 'seriously hurt'?" He wasn't really acting any differently, but Gibbs could feel the agitation rising in the room. "Your forensic – um, Scuito, is that serious?"

"No," Gibbs said calmly. "Abby insisted she wasn't hurt at all." He watched Gray relax slightly. "Anyone else?"

"No."

Really. "Really?"

Gray shrugged, nonchalant. "Used to beat the shit out of Diego."

The best friend? "And he didn't mind?"

"He beat the shit out of me back."

Right. And now Diego was gone.

"That why you went after Kort, Gray? You need someone to spar with?"

"No."

Gibbs grinned a little, bleakly amused. "Do you _remember_ why you went after Kort?"

"Yeah. Only parts are blurry. The end."

"Huh." Gibbs studied him. Gray returned the stare like a pro for the first few minutes, then looked away.

It was a good long time before he spoke. "That it?"

"Hm?"

Gray seemed to steel himself. "Anything else, Captain Gibbs?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "But I'm afraid of jinxing it."

"Jinxing?"

"You're answering a lot of questions, Gray."

"You want me to stop?"

"No," Gibbs said firmly. "Just like to know what's inspiring all this cooperation." He paused and looked thoughtfully into the distance. "Dinozzo reacts like this to pizza," he said finally. "But usually not until it's actually been delivered."

Gray's face was stony, utterly unamused.

Gibbs didn't care. "Does the idea of pizza undo you, Gray?"

"No."

"Then what's up?"

Gray gave him an incredulous look. "You for real?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "I'm always for real."

"You came through. On O'Donnell," he said simply.

Gibbs waited for him to go on, but he didn't. That was it.

Gibbs didn't buy it. "Really. All I had to do all along was take care of Declan O'Donnell?"

"No. I want in on the rest."

"What do you mean by 'in'?"

"I told you," Gray said slowly. Patiently. "If my information will help with the cartel then I want in. To be sure."

Gibbs sat back in the seat. "And you thought I wasn't going to let you help us out?"

Gray looked at him warily. When the words came he spoke like he was edging closer to a cliff. "You said before that I was too young. It's a crime to work with me."

Gibbs nodded. "Since you were listening so carefully you also know that I backed off of that when you confirmed your involvement would actually help us to protect you. What's the real reason?"

Gray took a breath. "I wasn't in control, last night. And – with the memory thing I thought you would rethink it. Me."

Gibbs cocked his head. "Like I said, confused memories and some loss of control aren't too uncommon. It's not the end of the world."

Gray laughed.

"What?"

"When you lost your memory you quit your job," he said.

Trust him to know that. And read a life lesson into it, apparently. "Yeah well, that was more severe than what you're dealing with." He smiled a little and gave in to Gray's stare, which clearly called bullshit. "And that wasn't exactly my finest hour."

Gray looked about as restless as a motionless person could get. There was something else he needed to hear. Gibbs just wasn't sure what. "You been honest with me about all of this?"

Gray looked at him darkly.

It wouldn't have been easy to lay it all out like he just had. But Gray had always been honest, as far as Gibbs could tell. Mostly silent, but when he did open his mouth, the truth generally came out.

Gibbs held up his hands to show he'd meant no offense. "Then I don't think it's that big of a problem, just like you said. As long as you keep getting help for it."

Gray didn't say anything else. But Gibbs' gut was still telling him they were teetering on an edge, hovering over something sharp.

"What else, Gray?"

Gray was silent for a long moment. "You said I had to stop attacking your people," he said quietly. "After that night here."

The night Gray held McGee paralyzed at the end of Gibbs' own rifle. "Yeah, I did."

"I don't – " Gray's eyes slid over to study Gibbs, like he was wondering if Gibbs was screwing with him. "I already did it again. With Abby."

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "I know."

Gray didn't say anything else.

"You have to get better at that."

Gray stiffened almost imperceptibly, and Gibbs could see how impossible his demand was, from the other side.

"What if I don't get better at it?"

"You will."

Gray didn't seem to find that very convincing.

"In the meantime," Gibbs said, "since I understand the problem I can take responsibility for it."

"What?" Gray leaned forward. "Pardon?"

"I know what to be aware of now," Gibbs explained. "So I can take precautions. According to what you've just told me you have enough control to warn me when there's potential for a problem," he said seriously. "When you're having a bad day. And from now on you will do that."

Gray watched him, waiting for the rest of it.

"You going to do that?" Gibbs pressed.

A slow nod.

"Okay," Gibbs shrugged.

"So . . ." Gray frowned at him doubtfully. "I can come in?"

"You're already in, Gray."

"That's not what I meant."

Gibbs grinned. "I know." He stood and stretched, picking up the empty water glass from the table. "You can stay here tonight. If you're feeling alright tomorrow we'll go in together, look through some photos and the interview notes." Gibbs winced slightly, thinking of the piles of paper that Kort had already worked up. "Summaries, anyway."

Gray was still for a moment, eyes on the glass in Gibbs' hands. "Anyone else stay here?"

"Not usually. That a problem?"

"No."

Obviously it was. But Gray had to stay somewhere.

"You can call Cass to stay over if you want. Or Ziva. Or Tony."

Gray's head swiveled to look directly at him, eyes glinting like steel in the sun streaming through the windows. "It's fine."

Gibbs let it go. He'd been planning an absurdly complicated op for weeks. He'd been up all night and in the same clothes for two days. He was tired.

"Okay. I'm going to clean up." He checked his watch. Still had fifteen minutes, probably, until the food was delivered. He tossed two twenties on the table anyway. "Should cover dinner. You be here when I get back."

Fifteen minutes later he came down, freshly showered, to an empty living room.

There were two pizza boxes on the kitchen table, a pile of change on top. And his phone was on the coffee table. Blinking. Three missed calls.

He picked up the cell and dialed the last number in.

"Boss," Dinozzo said. "We have a problem by the name of Michael Stern. McGee's sending you the photo."

* * *

><p><em>Holy hiatus! Hope everyone is enjoying spring.<em>


	64. Empty Houses

**Chapter 64: Empty Houses**

Gibbs shut his phone and gazed at the couch. The house was silent. But it didn't really feel empty. He walked to the top of the basement stairs. Dark. On a hunch he looked out the window, scanning the deck.

Gray was roaming his backyard.

The sun was almost gone as he stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him, and Gibbs' breath frosted in the glow of the porch light. He watched for a minute and was ignored, though Gray must have known he was there.

"Aren't you cold?"

Gray cocked his head, motion strange. "Flowers?"

_Kept saying her garden was soothing_, Gibbs thought.

"Should be, come summer."

Gray walked the perimeter slow, barely pacing. "Color?"

Gibbs cleared his throat against the dry air, crossed his arms over his chest. "Red."

The air was freezing. Still felt good after a night in the hospital and a day indoors.

Gray touched a finger, gently, to a thorn.

They just didn't have time. "Come inside, Gray."

Gray stared at a squat little evergreen bush. "Don't know this one."

"Checkerberry."

He moved again, paused in front of another rosebush. "Lot of flowers."

"Not in March. Come on."

Gray followed Gibbs in and drifted, silent, to stand in the foyer between the living room and kitchen. It was the only spot on the ground floor with clear line of sight to the front and back entrance, and no view from any of the windows. His first time in the house Gibbs stood in that spot for half an hour, watching his wife and the real estate agent admire the fireplace and the molding and the floors.

Gibbs had been twitchy, just back from Grenada. And something had spooked Gray. Staying here maybe, or Gibbs asking him to stay? Or the roses or the drugs. Or anything else, really.

"Here." Gibbs shoved the pizza boxes across the table toward him. "We can eat downstairs." Didn't matter who was trying to kill you or how paranoid you might be about it - the basement was a bunker, no decent shot through its high windows at all.

Gibbs made up a mug of coffee-flavored milk and followed with the plates. Gray had perched himself on the stool by the workbench. When Gibbs set the mug down next to him he went for it straightaway.

"Hold on." Gibbs dug a ratty sweatshirt out from the shelf under the bench, faded blue _Marines_ stenciled across the front. His basement wasn't any warmer now than it had ever been. "Come on," he gestured, "arms out."

The ancient cuff stretched over the cast easily, barely touching it, and the fit was loose enough to slip over Gray's head without pulling at his shoulder. "Marines look good on you," Gibbs smirked.

Gray reached for the steaming coffee again. "Dream on."

Gibbs leaned back against the bench, smile fading as his eyes followed Grays', settling on the middle of the room and the project gathering dust there. Gray's mug tilted toward the raw outline of Mike's coffin. "Not much progress."

"Nope. Been busy."

The words hung in the air between them, like motes suspended in light. Like ash.

He'd been steering his mind away from it all week. But there was nowhere else to go, now, with the boy beside him. He smoothed a hand over the work bench, skin so callused he hardly felt the nicks scarring the wood anymore. "I am sorry about your mom."

Gray was still, transfixed by Mike's coffin. His voice, when it came, seemed to sail out of the clear blue. "Your friend still alive?"

"Yeah." Gibbs picked up one of the pizza boxes and walked around the table, pulling a chair out from under it. He set the box off to the side and squinted at the panel of wood clamped to the workspace, finally picking out one of the finer chisels. "He's with his family," he added.

What was past couldn't be changed. All he could do now was focus on what had to happen next. Try to do it better. And the question Gibbs started out with was still unanswered.

"You ditch your phone, Gray?"

"Yeah."

"Going to replace it?"

No answer.

Gibbs concentrated on the thin, perfect curve of a petal. "What if Sean needs to reach you?"

Nothing.

"Sean never needs you?"

"Not your business."

"So that's a yes."

"That's a fuck off."

Gibbs moved on to another petal. And another.

"Sean needs you."

"Sean is fine."

"Yeah?" Gibbs would probably pay for pushing it with the family. Problem was there was nothing else to push, with Gray. "How about Cassie?"

Gray's voice went sly. "Fine."

Gibbs ignored it. "Maybe your people will put up with you disappearing on them. But if we're going to work together I need to be able to get in touch with you."

"What's stopping you Jethro? Something wrong with your arms?"

Gibbs straightened. That was more than sly.

He leaned in to blow a little pile of shavings out of the depression he'd just carved. Kid kept nudging things that way, testing him. "It's Gibbs. And I think you know I'm never going to touch you sexually."

Gray laughed.

Gibbs pressed the chisel into the little circular groove etched between the fat ovals, the center of the flower, and pushed it gently, steadily forward. "Something funny?"

"It's usually more 'I would never touch you.'"

Gibbs followed the line, watched a thin curl of wood fall away, and said nothing.

"Or 'I would never hurt you'?"

"Can't say that, can I?" He switched out the chisel for the sharp edge of an exacto knife. "You come after me or my agents the way you went after Kort and I'll take you down."

Gray sat perfectly still, focus on Gibbs total. "I was kidding."

Gibbs huffed. "With Kort? Looked pretty serious to me."

"Not about Kort," Gray said, still so calm. "About you and me fucking."

Like hell he was.

"Don't," Gibbs said shortly.

"Aye aye, Cap." He moved to slide to his feet. "That all?"

"No. Never made Captain," Gibbs said. "And you never answered the question. I need to be able to get in touch with you." He paused. Gray was right, it wasn't any of his business . . . but those lines had been messed up from the start. "And you shouldn't be out of touch with the family you have left."

A minute passed in silence. Another time, Gibbs might have waited all night. But he didn't have all night. "Well?"

"Well what?"

Gibbs grinned down at the plank of wood under his hands. "How about I get you an NCIS phone?"

"For my birthday? If NCIS is buying I'll take a humvee."

"Offer's one encrypted cell phone. If you'll use it. What do you say?"

"No."

At least it was a solid answer. Gibbs set down the knife and reached for the pizza. "Why not?"

"To answer a phone it has to be on. You can track the location of any phone that's on. Might as well let you microchip me like a dog." Gray's head turned slightly, breaking his stare with Gibbs to look over the workbench. He picked up one of the clamps resting on it with his good hand and turned it over critically, making the sliding element rattle. "With a little help from your geek you can probably use it to listen to conversations. Might as well wear a mike."

Given his team's history of tracking Gray without his knowledge that was a fair point. Gibbs wiped his hands on a napkin and picked the knife back up. "I don't spy on my own people."

"I'm not your people."

That was debatable. Gibbs only felt this deeply uneasy for his people.

But that wasn't the sort of argument you could actually win with a debate.

"I'm not going to use your phone to spy on you." Gibbs searched for the words, and basically repeated what Ducky had thrown at him last night. What Duck had thrown at him off and on for the last fifteen years, really. "We need to be able to communicate if we're going to help each other."

No response.

"Well?"

Gray dropped the clamp and reached for the food. "You just said you'd never fuck me. But if someone held a gun to your head we both know you would. Maybe you wouldn't use a phone to track me unless you thought you had a great reason. And then you wouldn't care what you said – you'd use it to find me."

Gray chewed through a slice of pizza while Gibbs tried to figure out what to say to that.

He was pretty sure this was another argument he wasn't going to win with a debate. It would only be turned with time. But ignoring it in the moment didn't seem like a good idea, either.

"I'm not going to put you into a situation where a gun will be pointed at anyone's head. It shouldn't have happened before." He waited for an acknowledgement that didn't come. But he had Gray's attention, at least. Just don't be squeamish - "And I'm not going to have sex with you in any situation. I wouldn't be able to. I said it would never happen because it'll never happen."

Gray's eyebrows rose theatrically. "You can't get it up?"

"For you? No."

The kid grinned and rocked precariously back on the stool, never mind cracked ribs that must've hurt like hell. "Bet Holly could help you with that."

Gibbs returned his attention to the panel in front of him. A knot was distorting the shape of one of the leaves. "Fall off that stool and Ducky will lock you in the hospital for a week. What you said about the phone is probably true," he shrugged. "If I had reason to believe you were in danger and you weren't answering I'd try tracking you with it. That such a bad deal?"

He etched the vein of a leaf while Gray thought over what was apparently a complicated question.

"How do you know it's safe to talk?" Gray probed.

"After the scare we had with the FBI my_ geek_ set up some monitors. He'd let me know if the house had been compromised." Gibbs' focus was on the wood in front of him. But he could feel Gray's stare become more intense. "What's on your mind?"

"What would happen? If somebody found out. You lose your job?"

Gibbs frowned. "You realize what we're doing isn't exactly legal?"

Gray gave an awkward one-shoulder shrug. "Kort says they can bend the rules if they think it's necessary."

"Sometimes. CIA's been known to do that. But Kort can't get this one approved. That's part of why he came to me."

"But . . . now you can't get it approved?"

Ah. "There was never any question of that. NCIS doesn't get a pass to play with the law the way the CIA does."

"So, prison."

"If we were charged and convicted, yeah." Not that it would ever get that far.

"For life."

"For multiple pre-meditated homicides? Yeah. Probably." Gibbs set the knife aside again, and reached for a tiny sandpaper brush.

"What about your team?"

"Same," he said easily. "They know the risk."

Gray seemed to mull that over.

Gibbs went back to his chisel. "But we're not going to be charged or convicted of anything," he reminded him. "There's nothing to worry about."

Gray saw through it. "Kort told me one time that the CIA does whatever it takes to keep an operation out of the news."

Gibbs sighed. "Yeah."

"A trial like that would be big news."

"Yep."

"So life in prison, if you're lucky. And assassination by the Agency if you're not lucky." Gray paused, thinking over all the fun possibilities. "Or you could just get killed by the cartel."

Gibbs shrugged. "Only if we get caught."

A few beats of silence, and Gibbs straightened his shoulders, looking up from his work to catch Gray's eyes.

Gibbs grinned. His turn to be sly. "Makes you nervous, doesn't it?"

"You getting yourself killed? I think I'd get over it."

"I'm sure you would. I'm talking about you working with someone you don't have a hold over."

Gray smiled back. "You want me to hold you?"

Gibbs turned to the woodworking debris strewn around the table, looking for a finer grain of paper. "Thought I asked you not to kid around about that."

Gray's smile melted into a leer. "That's not kidding, Gibbs. That's innuendo."

"No, it's habit," he corrected mildly. "Not a good one." He found the 100 grain, pulled out a fresh sheet. "O'Donnell used sex as a weapon, so you turned it around. Used it to manipulate him, far as manipulating someone like that was possible." Gibbs waited a beat, digging out a pair of scissors. It was good to have the project in front of him. "Come in handy with anyone else?"

Gray cocked his head. "I don't kiss and tell, Gibbs."

"Course not. Blackmail wouldn't work if you did," Gibbs agreed.

"No, it wouldn't."

"You've had a hold over pretty much everyone you ever worked with, or you did." Gibbs paused, focused on squaring off the rough paper in front of him, long enough to make it obvious that Gray wasn't about to respond. "Had a murder charge on me, before all the Reynosa evidence was deemed inadmissible."

"Murder? You?"

Gibbs looked up and Gray's eyes laughed back at him. Laughed.

Gibbs wondered, suddenly, if the meds Duck gave him for Gray, the ones he'd sworn up and down were non-addictive, could still make the kid goofy. Like Dinozzo got goofy - unpredictable. Vulnerable.

"Shocked, I say," Gray declared.

"You control information about the cartel and the location of fields the CIA is after. You control Kort's access to his daughter."

Gray was quiet. He looked interested, though. Waiting for Gibbs to go on.

"Cass and Tomas, all the rest of the kids, they need your money and connections. Your protection."

"You think I'm blackmailing my friends? Cynical man."

"Are they your friends?"

Gray leaned forward. "What _is_ a friend? You know what I just realized?"

That didn't sound good. "No."

"I haven't really been at my best whenever we've talked before, you know? Shot and incarcerated and all that. This is fun though. I like this. Did you pick up philosophy in the Marines, Captain Gibbs?"

Gibbs had to agree. Negotiating with Gray was easier all the other times, when he was beat up or locked up or in shock.

"Knowing what a friend is isn't philosophy." Gibbs frowned at an uneven edge. "It's life. I'm your friend. Tomas and Cass are your friends, even if it didn't start out that way. You're just lucky your friends are such talented people."

"Mm," Gray nodded. "Lucky."

Gibbs smoothed over the edge one last time and considered the carving in front of him. It would need sealant before it was ready for finish and paint. "You feel guilty about that?"

"About my incredible luck?"

Gibbs grinned, tried to be gentle. "That they're only with you because you bought them, and you only bought them because they were strong. That you couldn't afford to take on kids who weren't assets."

Silence. And then -

"Of course I could. I'm a rich boy."

Gibbs glanced up.

Gray was examining a jar of tiny nails. Smiling a little, aware of the absurdity of his words - a skinny, shabby, beat-up, fucked-up kid in tattered clothes. Gibbs would peg him for homeless if he didn't know better.

"But friends can be expensive," Gray said. "You were a bargain, I guess. Lots of new NCIS friends, all for the price of one." He set the jar down and moved on to the next one on the shelf.

Not everyone Gray got out would have been a physical asset, necessarily. Some of the ones hidden in Gibbs' basement the night O'Donnell appeared were simply too young. So they'd been smuggled out for other reasons.

"So you took out weaker kids." And everything with Gray was a bargain, a deal. "For a price."

What could kids like that possibly pay? Gray certainly didn't need money, he'd stolen plenty of that from the cartel.

Gibbs checked the fit of the panel against the larger frame. It was good.

_Hit fast, run fast, that's how we survived. . . . _He dragged over a new panel from a stack of them, rough shape of flowers and leaves still coarse, and adjusted the clamps around it._ Brilliant girl__ . . . _He picked up the chisel, ready to start again. _He's the best_ . . .

He'd needed a damn good team, to survive. And then climb the ranks in a bloody cartel. That talent was what he'd bought with his protection. But then he'd needed their trust, too, to set up an escape. To deceive the cartel, all this time - that was absolute loyalty. Beyond a cartel's money or bribes, beyond fear.

Beyond price.

Only one thing in this world beyond price. "You recruited the best. And for services rendered you got their families out." Gibbs wondered if any of the young ones in his basement that night had been Cassie's little sisters, or brothers, even. The thought almost made him smile.

"Not whole families, I'm not an immigration service. We got one each." Gray put down the jar he'd been looking at, moving on to the folder set beside it.

Just one of Cassie's sisters, then. One for Tomas. One for Diego . . . "So you've bought or blackmailed everyone you risk working with," Gibbs said soberly. "Doesn't mean you have to buy me."

Gray opened the folder held idly in his hands, tilted it to look at the first picture. Froze.

Gibbs went back to his chisel.

"What is this?"

"Team pulled photos from surveillance we thought you might want," Gibbs said easily. One of Dinozzo's better moments. Probably.

Nothing to do now but see how it played out.

"These are old."

"Calera surveillance goes back a long time."

"Kort?" Gray pressed.

"Some, yeah."

"And Rodge."

Gibbs rolled his shoulders, muscles tense and tired. Thinking he was too old to sleep in hospital chairs. Thinking maybe he'd put a pot on. Hoping, mostly, that this intrusion didn't lead to anger, didn't end up setting them back.

Tony didn't think it would, though. And Tony would know. "I do have a few connections of my own."

Shuffling, and a pause.

"Haven't ID'd a lot of the faces in those," Gibbs prompted. "And plenty we found in them don't turn up in more recent coverage."

"Dead," Gray said absently. "Probably. This one's Diego. Me and him in El Valle."

Dead. That made sense. It was just hard to conclusively prove, years on and thousands of miles away.

Shuffling, and another long pause, and Gibbs busied himself with his wooden flowers.

"How'd you get this?"

Not angry, that Gibbs could tell. Not surprised. Not anything.

"Abby found your mom's birth certificate after we ID'd her. With the full name Kort was able to track down the apartment she'd rented in Brooklyn, from there a storage unit. Furniture, mostly."

Gray handled each image with exquisite care, leafing through them on a slow, endless loop.

"Where's that one with the roses?" Gibbs asked finally. It was a beautiful photograph. Not surveillance - a family photo, happy, loving. Private.

A good long wait. Gibbs wouldn't have expected anything else.

"We didn't have a yard. She bought cut ones for inside, kept pots on the fire escape. Your wife liked red ones?"

Didn't take an expert to see that a lot of Gibbs' garden had been there a long time. Shannon and that real estate agent had practically mapped out a twenty year plan. "Yeah."

"My mother said the red ones looked like blood. She'd only grow white and yellow." He stopped, and Gibbs thought he was done. But then Gray went on, like he couldn't stop himself from offering up a picture of his own. "So that's what all the flower guys called her, when we'd go by you know, it was all 'Yo sunshine lady, yo lace, I got you flowers here like butter and cream - " He slipped seamless into a Brooklyn accent, like Al Pacino doing himself, and Gibbs grinned. "Come on over mamacita, I got them nice ones for you hey.'" Gray smirked. "Funeral homes would take the whites. But nobody else bought the yellows."

Gibbs was quiet, letting something warm, something finally good, settle over them. His mother was dead. But Gray already understood something about loss that it had taken Gibbs half a lifetime to learn. About how the dead could live on, in a way, and not in pain. How the memory could be good, if you could let it.

"I figured out why your team was pissed at you," Gray said abruptly. "In Colombia."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"You left them," Gray said. He kept rotating through the pictures, like he wanted to look at all of them at once.

Gibbs' eyes wandered to the bourbon sitting innocently behind Gray's head. Could just imagine what Ducky would say.

He picked up another slice of pizza instead. "I got kidnapped."

"You gave up."

Gibbs had accepted getting arrested, even though it stunk of a Reynosa plot. In a way, maybe he'd given up. "That fight was personal. I was trying to keep my people out of it."

"You gave them up."

Gibbs didn't say anything.

"Anyway, they can't be out of it." Gray paused, preoccupied by the ghosts in the photographs. "That's not how it works. That's what Tony says."

_That's what Tony says?_

"Guess I might have gotten that wrong," Gibbs allowed. "Lucky I got a second chance."

Shuffling photographs, slower, faster. "You think she was wrong," Gray said lowly. "Siding with Londono."

Gibbs finished off the slice in his hand. "What I think doesn't matter. But I'm not sure that she did side with him. It was a complicated situation." Was there a way to say it delicately? Gibbs decided Gray did better with blunt. "And now you'll never know her side of it."_  
><em>

Gray went back to leafing through the folder, and Gibbs went back to the vines on Mike's coffin.

"I don't know. Maybe. Feels like she left us."

Gibbs nodded. "That's grief."

Gray frowned. "I mean before, in Colombia."

"That's grief, too."

Gray sat still for awhile. "You tell me?"

"No."

He was ready for some kind of outburst. But Gray was in perfect control. "Why not?"

"Because knowing who she was with didn't matter. She was still unreachable."

"Didn't matter."

Gibbs grimaced. Those weren't the right words. "It would torture you to know where she was. That's why O'Donnell told you. And why Kort didn't."

Shuffling again. Steady now, like a metronome. "I don't care if the truth is good or not. If I work with you I want to know."

"Would you have been able to stop yourself from going after her?"

No answer.

Gibbs hadn't thought so. "Kort saved your life by keeping it quiet," he said. "I'd do the same." He hesitated, but Dinozzo had pushed him to be honest, and Kort, and his own gut - well, hell. "And I think it's what your mother would have wanted."

Gray pulled his good arm into his ribs. A casual gesture, a nonchalant hug. He'd never looked more his age. "She picked Londono," he said after a moment.

"Because she thought she'd already lost you."

"She did," he said. "She knew."

"No." Gibbs resisted intensity. Matched the calm in Gray's voice instead. "She didn't get the chance to know you."

"She knew what happened when you joined them," Gray countered. "She warned me and I ran with them anyway. You're the one doesn't know her. Or me."

"Well who does?"

"Does what?"

"Who does know you?"

Blank gaze. Just absolutely empty.

"Cassie? Tomas? Rodge and Pete, Kort? C'mon, Gray."

Gray lowered his head and his good hand came up, slow and stiff, to rub the hair back from his eyes. "I bought their loyalty," he said flatly. "Like you said."

"Maybe at first," Gibbs agreed. "But that's not why they're with you now. Loyalty like that can't be bought, Gray."

Gray seemed to consider that, and Gibbs held his breath.

"It was supposed to be for them," Gray said. "For Sean and her."

"I know."

Gray looked at him, but it was still empty. No expression, no anticipation. Nothing left to say.

Down that way there was nothing but a bottle, or a drug. Or a gun.

"You have to move on," Gibbs said. "For the people you have left."

Gray looked away, scanning the wood pile at the far end of the basement. Gibbs didn't need to see his face, though, to know.

"It's not the same," Gray said.

"No."

Long minutes slipped by before Gray closed the folder, still holding it tightly in his good hand. He looked at Gibbs, and gestured slightly with it.

"You're welcome," Gibbs said lightly. Moving on. "If you want to return the favor you can carry a phone. And answer it when your friends are trying to reach you."

"Friends like you?"

Gray's voice was ironic. Gibbs' wasn't. "Yep."

Gibbs gently, gently ground the rough edges away from the slender neck of a vine, and Gray watched him.

"I'll check messages," he said at last. "And if I'm in trouble I'll even think about turning it on, how's that. You and whoever's trying to kill me can both track away."

"Deal." Finally. Gibbs dug his phone out of his pocket and tossed it across the table.

Gray eyed it like old-fashioned was a disease that might be catching. "Generous. But I'll get my own."

"Damn right. The most recent text is a picture," Gibbs said. "Take a look."

Gray slid off the stool, already wary, and reluctantly set down the folder to pick up the phone. He had the picture in moments.

Gibbs could tell he recognized him.

"Where?" Gray said.

"Team pulled it from security at Union Station."

"Today?"

"Less than three hours ago."

Gray put the phone down and looked at Gibbs with a face that said nothing at all.

"You recognize him?"

"Yeah."

"We need to know everything you know."

Gray's eyes went distant. Too much?

"Start with his name," Gibbs prompted.

"Name's Barbi."

Gray elaborated at Gibbs' look. "Don't know his real name. Everybody called him Barbi. Yellow hair, blue eyes, tall, American. Barbi."

"Sure he's American?"

Gray lifted his eyes to the wall above Gibbs' head. Gibbs waited patiently as he sorted memories. "Yeah. American."

"What else? He's traveling under the name Michael Stern. That ring a bell?"

"Name's meaningless." Gray's voice was rote, elsewhere. "Fake or useless, tagged or will be soon. Nobody uses a name that means anything."

"Any idea why he's here?"

"Only the same idea you already have."

"And what is that?"

"Diablo or his people got word to Londono that we're in DC. Barbi's a squad leader. He's here to clean up."

"Squad as in death squad?"

"Yeah."

Gibbs had heard of them. Just never heard of one operating on US soil. "So there'll be others with him?"

"Yeah."

"How many?"

Gray shrugged.

"Two? Ten?"

"Small for this. At least two. No more than six."

"What's Barbi like?"

"Don't know. Never worked with him."

"But you recognize him. He famous? Like Diablo?"

"No." Gray paused again, and Gibbs centered his attention on him. No pretense of chisels and sandpaper. "I asked about him once. To learn. From him," Gray clarified. "He's good. Barb's organized. Not impulsive. Doesn't freelance. Doesn't play."

"Play?" Gibbs said sharply.

"He's clean. No . . . personal hits. No games. No patterns. Fast. Efficient." A shrug. "Good. His team's the same."

"Would you recognize who he's with?"

Gray considered. "Probably not. He switched them up. Drew from outside."

"Outside?"

"Outside the cartel."

"Sure he's here for you?"

A pause, thinking it over. Then thinking out loud. "Who else? You? Londono wouldn't go after you full force, not here. If he wants you dead it has to look normal. Car accident. Heart attack. But that would still leave your team. Can't all have heart attacks. If the cartel knows what O'Donnell did then they know that Sean and Cass and I are here and that we have contact with you. Now they're thinking about what we know. What we could do as witnesses, or outside the law. What happened to Diablo." Another pause, musing. "Londono might think that was me."

Which would be right, really, Gibbs thought. It was Gray, in the end, who brought O'Donnell down. It would be Gray's influence that finally brought down the cartel. And Londono might have an inkling, now, if he was really as clever as everyone said he was. Might finally realize he'd raised up a snake in the grass.

Gibbs reached for the phone to get the alias to McGee. Gray followed the movement.

"We'll get him," Gibbs said.

Gray nodded.

Gibbs talked to McGee and then put in a call to Vance, filling him in in the vaguest terms possible. Gray picked up his empty mug with swollen fingers, the half-empty pizza box with his good arm, and ghosted up the stairs.

When Gibbs ended the call he sat for a moment, thinking. Vance was pushing the safe house idea again, even though Gray didn't seem to think Londono's goons would come after Gibbs directly.

That was conjecture, though. Who could be sure how far Londono would go?

Gibbs stood. He'd run it by Gray -

He paused in his thoughts then, cocking his head to listen. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

He swept every room, and the garden too, to be sure of what he already knew. It was empty.

**x **

You can't rush science.

That's one of the things Abby loved about it. If you were being honest, you couldn't really rush anything good. Science just had the decency to be upfront about it.

What you can do, however, is rush yourself. You can get up before the crack of dawn and start your science early. Abby got to work at 0500 and used the side entrance. It was her favorite entrance, leading right down to the lab, with a key that Morrow had to get a special waiver from the Security Director to even make. She had clearance and didn't carry what the agency would consider a weapon, so having her log in through the front door was unnecessary. That's what she'd argued. The security department was happy to make an exception anyway, in her case. She bugged out their metal detectors.

By 05:25 she'd taken over the search from McGee and put him down for a nap, intent on expanding the initial program Tim was running through her international network and the lab's more powerful servers.

Writing the program ate some time. McGee was gone when she looked up. Nothing calling but the hum of the machines and the slant of the sun on the floor, telling her it was already afternoon. She had four computers running searches through global databases, with a search parameter of "tall," basically, since hair and eye-color could change - no matter how that brave yet incontrovertible fact continued to piss Gibbs off.

If they found anything at all she would be surprised. If they got a hit inside a month she'd consider it a miracle.

But Gibbs wanted the search done and you can't rush a search. All you can do is give it every available computer and the best possible program, which was already done.

When you can't rush science, when you can't even refine your search, what you can do is go for lunch. Abby headed to Wally's because Tuesday was cajun turkey day, and Wally's father was from New Orleans and knew his way around a turkey.

She picked up a fresh Caf-Pow on the way back and when she got to the Yard and started across her lot she saw him, sitting on the concrete steps outside her door. Gray watched her approach, past the cars and across the sidewalk, down the alley between the buildings. When she stopped in front of him he looked up at her, and for a weird few seconds they didn't say anything.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You're in trouble."

He grinned, a little. "So what else is new?"

Abby grinned a little back, and sat down in a narrow patch of sun next to him. "Those stitches look kinda new," she said, nodding toward his hand.

He didn't say anything, but it wasn't like a bad silence. They sat in a sliver of sun that reached down just to them, tucked away in a corner that was quiet, almost warm, and watched the world at the end of the alley go by. When the sun slipped past the narrow lip of the building Abby set her drink down and tucked her fingers into the sleeves of her coat, out of raw spring air that instantly felt cold.

"Coming in?"

He glanced at her, and away again. And didn't say anything.

"What's to think about?"

Another little grin.

Abby grinned too, triumphant - brilliant - because the rest of the team said he was mysterious, but she was pretty sure she had him pegged.

"How's the - " he made the smallest movement of his hand.

"Mm?" Abby touched her neck, shook her head. "Totally fine. I told you before, I was kind of surprised, and sometimes I yell. Yelp. When I'm surprised, you know. Unexpectedly. It's totally fine."

"Good."

He looked away, back down the alley again, but Abby kept looking at him.

She'd picked up a little bit over the years, from Gibbs. ESP-wise. Sometimes, if you just kept looking . . .

He was looking too now . . . looking . . . looking.

"What are we doing?" he said.

"I'm giving you the Gibbs-stare," she said, picking up her drink without breaking eye contact, "until I know all the answers."

He nodded. "Sounds good."

"I don't have the technique perfected yet."

"Me neither."

"I think it's kind of a long course of study." Abby took a pull through the straw, remembered the medical report the other night said he was dehydrated, and wiggled the cup. He was only confused for half a second, and then he shook his head. Abby grinned, impressed. He was quick, kept up the pace. Wasn't everyday you met somebody who kept up. "If that's what you're waiting for you're in for a loooooooong wait," she said. "Looong wait."

"Waiting for?"

"Your diploma in Gibbs."

He smiled, kind of sheepish. Kind of tense.

"He freaks out all his agents at first. With the knowing everything and the - " she dropped her voice, assumed the growl - "_you belong to me now, McGee_. Timmy was so freaked he didn't make a _peep_ in front of Gibbs for three months. Hard to do when you're both on Gibbs' team and not getting fired."

"Timmy?"

"Pre-backbone McGee. Tony and Ziva, they still freak out, sometimes. Because, you know, trust issues, hello. But most of the time they just sort of make an exception for Gibbs. Have you ever done a trust fall?"

He shrugged.

"Yeah, not my favorite. See, Gibbs would never make you do that. But he catches you when it's real. And then he lets you go, you know." She nodded. That was an important part. Gibbs didn't catch you like a cage.

"Not always."

She waited, puzzled.

"What about - when - " he moved his hand.

Oh. "South of the Border Gibbs?"

He smiled, soft. "Yeah."

She grinned too. She hadn't been sure about today this morning, had a funny feeling. But maybe things were looking up. "That's what Tony's for, and the rest of the team too. Sometimes El Jefe needs catching himself, you know?"

He practiced his Gibbs stare on her.

"Seriously. The bigger they are the harder they fall? In relation to Gibbs this is verified fact. Well, you know, you were there in Colombia. Talk about a free fall. It's worrying to the point of insanity, like if vertigo could make you crazy? They don't really believe anybody's going to catch them but then they jump anyway and sometimes it's all - HEY!"

He jumped.

Her head was already buried in her massive purse-bag, but she saw it. "Sorry!" Muffled. "I just - I have them, but where did I - here!" She pulled out four black envelopes with a flourish, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and thrust them at him.

Gray took them gingerly.

She clasped her arms around her knees and gripped her own hands, excited, but he flipped through them slowly. Every one had his name across the front, etched out in silver ink. Tim's neat and tiny print. Tony big and messy. Ziva's efficient, pretty in a clean, balanced way. Abby had spelled his name out in a spider web.

He held it up. "Like Charlotte."

"_You have been my friend_," she said solemnly. "_That in itself is a tremendous thing._"

He looked at her for a long moment then, and it wasn't a Gibbs stare, or any other look she recognized. It was a Gray stare. And Abby had just met him, but she still knew what it meant.

"No ordinary spider," he said.

Abby shoved away weird nonsensical tears. "Exactly." She chewed a hangnail, waiting for him to hurry up and open them. He wasn't, though. He was just looking at them. "Open em!"

"Don't . . . get a lot of mail." He turned the top envelope around, and then around again, like he was studying the construction, looking for the door. He used his good hand to draw a switchblade the size of a thumb from the pocket of his pants, finally, and slit the tops of all four.

He read Abby's and then Tony's and then Ziva's and then Tim's. And then Abby's again.

And then he cataloged. "Two thank-yous, a thank-you and an apology, and one straight-up apology."

She sat up, indignent. "What do you mean, three thank-yous? Who didn't thank you? I gave them a script!"

He held up a card.

"McGee!" She plucked it out of the air, read it, rolled her eyes. "He quotes regs when he's drunk. And feeling guilty."

"How romantic."

"Right?" She handed the envelope back to him. "I will break him of that, though, eventually. And there'll be punishment for the no thank-you, too."

He leaned back, stretching slightly, slowly, to rest his elbows on the concrete step behind them. "Some guys have all the luck."

She grinned. Looked down at a the black-knit tights stretching over her kneecaps, and picked at a loose thread. "You're um . . . really good at apologies. Right to the point. Clearly haven't spent a lot of time around Gibbs. Yet." She peeked at him. "But, with McGee and me, the apology part, that was . . . well, I want to say it was right. I mean, we were wrong. We should have told you what it was, the isotope. Before we made you drink it."

"As apologies go," he said. "That does kind of suck."

"This one's good, though." She plucked back the card dangling from his hand, read her own tiny spiky print aloud. "It wasn't right to irradiate you without telling you first. Vance says that might have put you in danger, if someone else tracked you, but I think it was totally safe and he just doesn't understand the science. It would be really bizarre for the bad guys to figure this one out. But that doesn't change the fact that you shouldn't be sneaky with your own team, and you were on our team, but we didn't treat you like you were. And it's not an excuse, but I just wanted to say that I turned you into a pale blue dot because 'home, and everyone I love, everyone I know rested on you.' But it was still wrong. 'Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by a point of pale light.'"

She looked at him, and he looked at her, and then he looked out at the parking lot.

"That doesn't make any sense," he said. "But I forgive you anyway."

"You've never seen _Cosmos_?" she gasped.

He shook his head.

"Yes!" She flung her fists into the air and he ducked, slightly. "Sorry! But - movie night!" She dropped her voice again. "_We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries_. We should get Vance to give us MTAC for it, if you're allowed in there, that would be beyond awesome. Come on. Will those fit in your pockets? Here," she slipped the cards out of his hand, "I'll hold on to these for you, okay?" She reached for his good hand. "Is this okay?" He let her lever him up, and she did it expertly, avoiding stress on his shoulder, on his body. "How are your ribs? Do you have a fever?" She let go of his hand right away and pointed at him, no nonsense. "You left your meds at Gibbs' last night. Not cool."

Abby spun toward the door, paused. "Damn. You have to go through the front," she said. "Security."

"You go in here."

"I have a security clearance. And weird hours." She gestured, a vague body sweep. "And I break the metal detectors."

"Me too."

"Weird hours?"

"All three." He pulled open the door. "After you."

"You took my key!" Outraged, and maybe slightly impressed, she reached for the zipper pocket where her key . . . still was. "You didn't take my key," she said slowly. "How'd you open the door?"

He looked at the door, like he was studying a problem. "I think the main principle is force from mass times acceleration. But you tell me."

She rolled her eyes, stepped through. "Smart ass."

**x**

When they got up to the bullpen Abby stopped. "Um - "

"See you later," Gray said.

"Right. Just don't forget, it's an advanced degree, okay? But totally worth it. Eventually."

"Got it."

"Um - and can I just?" She leaned in. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. For your mom. Okay?" Her arms went up, and he didn't move, so she hugged him for a good two seconds.

He patted her back with his good arm and stepped away. "Later."

"Later." Abby waved. "Good luck."

The team were at their desks, Tim filling them in on what he'd found out from a Pentagon liasion about arms smuggling - and smugglers - out of Accra. Gibbs held up a hand, looking to Tim's left, and Tim glanced up to see Gray standing next to his desk. Tim jumped, making his desk rattle, and then he blushed.

Gray looked at him. "Sorry."

Tim opened his mouth, but Gibbs beat him to it. "Get over here," he said, voice quiet.

The whole bullpen felt quiet, then, but Gray strolled forward like he didn't notice.

"The one thing you had going for you," Gibbs said. "Was you were honest."

Gray's turn to wait, and get nothing.

"So?" he said finally.

Gibbs leaned back, relaxed. Resolved. "So I don't work with liars. Or cowards. You can go on home, now. Or wherever it is you go, when you're too afraid to go home."

Gray leaned forward, pulled a pencil out of Gibbs' pencil holder. "You don't work with liars. But you'll work with Kort."

"Kort is a CIA agent, I have to work with him. You're a punk."

Gray pulled a blue post-it from a square of them. "Never said I wasn't," he said, writing.

"What you said was that you would give me a way to contact you. You lied."

Gray didn't reply. But he leaned in again, letting the post-it fall on the Accra assessments stacked in front of Gibbs.

Gibbs glanced at the paper, pulled out his reading glasses and his phone, and punched in the number written there, staring at Gray all the while.

"I don't hear ringing."

Gray pulled a sleek black device from a pocket, held it up. "I said I would check messages, not that I would answer." He looked at the face of it. "One missed call from Gibbs."

"You check for my messages every six hours, minimum."

"Pushy."

"Minimum."

"I'll think about it. Why are you looking at Accra? Thought his last known whereabouts were Union Station."

"Search parameters for Barbi alone are too wide. We're looking to identify his team." Gibbs leaned over, opened a drawer and pulled out two prescription pill bottles. "You take whatever meds Ducky says you take."

Gray smiled, reaching for the bottles. "My last job came with candy, too."

Gibbs glared, but reached silently for the lockbox, removing the key to the war room. "Follow me. You three, I want IDs on that team," Gibbs said to the room, moving past Tony's desk toward the stairs, pulling his phone up to his ear. "Make it happen."

Gray paused by Tony's desk. "Cranky."

"Yeah," Tony hissed. "That's No Sleep Gibbs. Thanks a lot."

Gibbs had reached the stairs, and was closing his phone. "Hey!" he barked.

Tony shooed him away. "Scram, will ya? Before he comes back and goes _Kill Bill_."

Gray nodded to Ziva, who waved back, and disappeared with Gibbs up the stairs.

**x**

Gray followed Gibbs into the room, took in the table cluttered with laptops and paper.

"Kort?"

"Downstairs, interviewing." Gibbs reached into a pallet on the floor and set a bottle of water in the middle of the table. Then he pulled a file box from the windowsill. "Hanlan," he said, pointing to the front. He flipped the tab about midway through the box forward. "The other two." He set a chair in front of the box, and placed a blank yellow legal pad on top of it. "I want discrepancies. Inaccuracies. Lies."

"What's going on with Barbi?"

Gibbs grabbed a pen sitting in the middle of the table and placed it on top of the notepad. He thought about countering by asking where Gray had been all night. He just wanted to know. He wondered if he'd got any sleep. If he'd been out in the cold, in a sweatshirt, all that time.

But he wasn't the kid's father.

"No sign of him. Cassie suggested we monitor the neighborhood where you were living when O'Donnell found you and gave us your old address. He hasn't turned up there yet. But he will."

Gray nodded, sitting in front of the file box. Gibbs leaned against a wall and crossed his arms.

Gray pulled an inch worth of notes from the front of the box, scanned the first page. "You going to stand there all day?"

"No."

Gray was on the fourth page when there was a tap at the door.

"That's your guard. He'll stay outside as long as you're in this room, and keep you in sight at all times everywhere else, wherever you are, as long as you're on the Yard. Lose him and you'll never get inside the gate again. Clear?"

Gray nodded, and Gibbs left.

He was back two hours later. "Come with me," he said.

Gray put down his pen, stood, followed him out silently. The guard trailed them to MTAC as Gibbs ushered Gray in and strode forward.

"Where is he?"

A tech straightened up from the console in the front. "Traffic cam had Barb on Jefferson Street in Old Town two minutes ago. He's drifting closer to Rosemont."

Gibbs nodded. "I want my agents on open lines." He gestured to the screen. "Put a map up, I want Barb and their locations, and the house. And I want their hood cams."

"Yes sir."

Tony's voice broke through a moment later. "Here Boss."

"Step on it, Dinozzo, he's on King Street, heading toward Rosemont."

"On it."

Another two minutes, and Kort's voice came through. "Where is he?"

"King Street, heading west." Gibbs eyes moved over the map. "Correction, he's heading north on Commonwealth. I want that cam!" A traffic cam blinked into view under the map. Gibbs pointed at a tech without looking at her. "You follow him, Sarah. Dinozzo, head to the house, Kort's closing in on Barb's vehicle."

"We read you Gibbs," Ziva said. "Heading to Circle Hill Road now. Five minutes out."

"House is empty," Gray said.

"Yeah," Gibbs acknowledged. "But Barb doesn't know that. If we can get his entire team in there we can end this now."

They watched for four minutes in silence.

"There'll be a second car," Gray said. "Maybe a third."

"You got that, Dinozzo?" Gibbs said.

"Got it. Turning on Circle Hill now."

"I want a grid, house is your focus."

"On it."

Gibbs scanned the screens. "Got some cars on the street, people. Second and third teams could be on foot."

The agency cars and Barb converged around the Circle Lane block. It was a pretty tree-lined street, one Gray and who knew how many kids had called home before O'Donnell turned up and it all went to hell.

Gray's phone buzzed softly and he answered, just as soft.

Tony's car crept down Circle Lane. "Movement in the house!" Ziva called. " . . . A woman. Dark hair."

"Get in there," Gibbs ordered. "Dinozzo and Ziva take the front. Kort and McGee, enter from the back, access from Tompsen Lane. I want position confirmation."

"Two minutes," Kort said, terse. And a moment later, "We're on foot."

"I have to go," Gray said.

"_What?_"

"Truck has a tail." Gray was already running for the door.

But they were in a separate safe house, had to be miles away - were the houses blown then? All of them? A simultaneous tail - could be a coordinated attack. Could be a distraction. But Circle Lane could be a distraction -

"Gray! Where?"

"Uptown." He was out the door.

Gibbs didn't think about it. He just followed him up the ramp.

"Sarah, I want link up from my car," he shouted back. "Dinozzo, we've got contact in DC, you've got the lead." Gibbs burst out of MTAC and spotted Gray's guard disappearing into the stairwell at the opposite end of the hall. "Darren!"

"Front entrance," Darren yelled.

"Hold him off. I'll get the car."

Gibbs grabbed the keys from his desk and headed for the lot. Three minutes and he was roaring through the front circle. He spotted Darren pacing Gray to the side of the main entrance and pulled up, tires squealing. Gray leapt into the front seat.

"You too," Gibbs called, and Darren piled into the back.

"Darren, get me MTAC on speaker." Gibbs peeled out of the Navy Yard. "Where uptown?"

"Park View," Gray muttered.

Gibbs shook his head.

"MTAC's on, Gibbs."

"Sarah?"

"Here."

Gibbs swerved around late afternoon traffic, punching the Charger through shifting gaps in the snarl of cars and buses. "Patch me through to Dinozzo."

"Yes sir."

They waited in silence for Tony, the engine and the horns a cacophony all around them. But from Darren's phone there was only static.

"Dinozzo, you there?"

Static.

"Ziva! You read me?"

Static.

How much time had passed? Six minutes, maybe more. Whatever had happened in that house should be over by now.

"Sarah."

"Yes Gibbs."

"You have anything on the screen?"

"No sir, everything looks normal."

"Get me Kort."

"Yes sir."

Static.

"Kort?"

Static.

"McGee!"

Nothing.

Gibbs flipped the car's lights and let the siren blare, gunning up Capital Street. "Sarah."

"Here."

"Keep trying my team, get back to me when they're online."

"Yes sir. Sir? Should I call for backup to that location?"

Gibbs frowned at the street in front of him, traffic hemming him in.

"Sir?"

"No," Gibbs said. "You keep calling my team, and you get back to me the second you got them. We clear?"

"Yes sir."

Darren shut the phone.

Gibbs glanced over at Gray. He had his cast braced against the door and the other arm tight against his ribs. Gibbs wondered what he weighed. Pictured a hard brake sending him right through the windshield.

"Put your seatbelt on. This look like Barb's team?"

Gray fumbled with the belt, one-handed, and Darren leaned forward to secure it. Darren wasn't the sort who would fit through a windshield.

"Truck said it looked like a gang," Gray said.

"Colombian?"

"Local. Followed him this morning. He flashed his gun, they took off. Now they're back."

"You have trouble with local gangs before?"

"No."

Gray sounded as confused as Gibbs felt.

"How many?"

"Two cars, they tried to funnel him."

"How many with Truck?"

"Three."

"Armed?"

"Two are, plus Truck."

One unarmed? Too young, that meant.

Fuck it.

"Darren," Gibbs called back. "I want two teams in Park View, yesterday."

"Got it." Darren made the call.

Gray was on his phone again. "Forcing him south, down 8th."

"Make that Shaw, Darren," Gibbs said. They were east of the Mall now, coasting through quieter neighborhoods, traffic clearing.

"Third car. Driving him west, toward 9th," Gray said.

A lane opened to the left and the car rocked heavily as Gibbs swerved into it.

Two cars. Now a third car?

"Ambush," Gibbs said. "Soon."

Gray nodded. "Andy, speaker," he said into the phone. A moment later - "Truck, don't think we're gonna make it . . . Six, seven minutes . . . Yeah. Good. Do it."

Gray fell silent.

"What's the plan?"

"Too many closing in," Gray said. "Truck'll try to lose them. They'll abandon the car where they can barricade, and wait for us."

Gibbs grit his teeth and forced the Charger faster. Abandoning the car was a huge risk. But getting trapped in it would be worse.

"West on Barry," Gray said. And a moment later, "South on 10th."

Gibbs cut over to 11th, car edging toward two wheels whipping around the corner. They were close now. Blocks flew by in a grey blur.

"Shots," Gray said, monotone. The phone pressed to his ear. "Automatic . . . two shooters. East on P." Gray paused as Gibbs mirrored the move on H, crowding back a shocked delivery guy on a bike. "South. South on 9th. . . . Yeah, we'll come in the front. Two minutes." Gray shut the phone and dropped it into his pocket, reaching around to pull a semi-automatic from the holster at his back. "Vacant lots south of M on 9th," he said. "Abandoned building, west side of the street. They've ditched the car."

"Time?" Gibbs said.

"Maybe a minute."

Gibbs was still six blocks south, skidding north onto 9th. He glanced at the man sitting silently in the back seat, braced against the door behind Gray. "Darren."

"Yeah."

"You cover Gray."

"Got it."

"And don't get shot."

"No, sir."

"Four friendly inside," Gray added.

"Four friendly, got it," Darren said.

They rocketed up 9th, slowed to crawl through an intersection, forced to weave around cars paralyzed by the siren.

"Too slow," Gray said.

Gibbs said nothing, laying on the horn, bulling his way past two idiots in minivans, finally launching forward again. Two blocks up Gray pointed. "There."

It would have been hard to miss. Four shiny black SUVs grouped around a hulking, four-story brick. It was a burned out shell, a weedy gravel lot. Gunfire even through the siren as they pulled up, skidding across the gravel, leaping from the car. They ran for the front center door, rotting porch wood soft under their feet. Gibbs nodded and he and Darren stepped through the entry together, before Gray could beat them to it.

They surprised two tattooed men, guns dangling. Darren might have said something. Gibbs cut them down, one each to the chest, and moved forward. The front room was small. A third man appeared in the door to the left of them, gun raised. Darren fired. The man was knocked back, a neat hole in the center of his forehead. Gibbs shifted toward that door, Darren moving alongside.

There were two bodies just inside the door, bloody wounds center mass. They looked too old to be any of Gray's. Gibbs glanced quickly through into the room beyond. It was empty, long, high ceilinged. A blackened staircase running up the side. Heavy automatic fire coming from a doorway to the left, large caliber rounds chewing up the plaster wall on the far side of the room. Pistol fire, sporadic, returned from the top of the stairs and a door farther down on the right.

A weird pause, sudden silence from one of the heavy guns, and a shriek from the near door on the left. The kids had hit one. A barrage of pistol fire instantly centered around the door, but the gun returned after a second. Another shooter.

Gibbs glanced behind him.

Gray was gone.

He grabbed Darren's arm and gestured behind him. "Cover Gray!" he yelled. The words were swallowed by the fight, but Darren looked where Gray ought to be, and back to Gibbs, eyes wide.

"Flank!" Gibbs gestured to the left side of the house, and Darren took off.

Gibbs concentrated his fire where the shooter hiding behind the plaster wall closest to him must have been. He had no angle, but plenty of ammunition, so he set methodically to punching holes in the wall. Seemed to take ten clustered in the same spot to punch through. He put in three in less than twenty seconds, and the third one was the charm. The fire from the door farther down cut out almost at the same time.

"Hold your fire!" Gibbs yelled. "This is Gibbs! Hold your fire!"

Quiet.

"Gray, Darren, you clear?"

"We're clear," Darren called back.

A voice from the right, muffled. Sounded like Tomas.

Gray stepped through the far door and Andy flew down the steps, trailed by a boy about her age. She and Gray disappeared through the second door and the rest of them followed.

Tomas was just inside, kneeling in a lake of blood. He was hunched over, his back to them, and Gibbs' first thought was that he'd been hit, gut shot. But then Gibbs moved farther into the room and saw that he was hovering over a smaller boy. A boy who had more holes in him than Truck had hands. Pools of blood welled up from his chest, rushed up from his stomach. It spilled over his sweatshirt, spreading fast over the dirty floor.

Gray was beside him instantly, hands over the blood covering the boy's belly, turning his jeans black. Andy slid to her knees by his head, looking at his chest, taking in the destruction of his body, and then she turned away from it deliberately, touching his face.

"Bean," she whispered. She stroked his hair. "Hey Beans, you're okay, berraco. Bacan boy." His hands jerked, knocked hard into the floor, and she caught one. "I got you." He looked at her, panting, terrified. Tried to speak, but nothing came. "Shh," she leaned down, murmuring. "Mi corazon, carnalito, todos bien, okay, it's okay. We got you now, I got you."

His free hand scrabbled against Tomas' thigh, fingers stretching. The room held its breath as his eyes shifted, drifted away, and his body stilled.

A brief, terrible silence, all of them waiting to be sure. And then Gray said something, low, to Tomas, and the older boy stood, brushing past Gibbs. Gray followed, and Gibbs moved to be able to keep him in sight. But he was reluctant to leave the room, or the girl sitting still by the body of the little boy.

Tomas ran out of the house, headed for the cars, but Gray stopped at the first body by the door. The man lay face down. Gray hauled him over, patted him down, shoved up a sleeve. Calligraphy covered his forearm.

Gray turned immediately to the next body, starting the process again.

"Darren," Gibbs said.

"Yeah."

"I want our teams at either end of this block, intercepting local law enforcement. No one in or out, for as long as they can hold them."

"Got it."

It wouldn't be long.

Gibbs nodded at the bodies. "And check the rest of them."

Darren already had his phone up to his ear. "Looking for anything in particular?"

"Gang tats. That one's MS-13," Gibbs waved at the first body, sleeve still shoved up where Gray had left it, tattoo exposed.

Darren disappeared into the far room and Tomas reappeared, carrying a blanket and a plastic jug of gasoline. Gray stood, walking with Tomas back to the boy's body, to the girl sitting with him, still holding his hand, and the fourth kid crouched silent next to her.

Tomas carried out Bean's body, bundled in a bloody quilt, and placed him in the SUV. Tomas and Andy and the silent boy climbed into the car, and in seconds were speeding out of the gravel lot, heading north.

Gibbs poured the gasoline.

In the far room Darren pulled up the shirt of the last gunman. "MS-13," he said, and got out of the way as Gibbs doused the body and the floor around it, setting the tank down.

"Let's go," Gibbs said. Gray and Darren made for the car. Gibbs tossed the match, and joined them.

* * *

><p><em>Colombian Spanish slang in this chapter (definitions according to the Internet):<em>

_berraco: tough guy_

_bacan: cool_

_Todos bien: It's all good_

_Mi corazon: My heart_

_carnalito: little brother_

* * *

><p><em>an: Q__uotes:_

_From _Charlotte's Web_, E.B. White:_

_"Why did you do all this for me?" he asked. "I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.'  
>You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing."<em>

_ . . . _

_"But we have received a sign, Edith - a mysterious sign. A miracle has happened on this farm... in the middle of the web there were the words 'Some Pig'... we have no ordinary pig."_

_"Well", said Mrs. Zuckerman, "it seems to me you're a little off. It seems to me we have no ordinary spider."_

_. . ._

_Abby also quotes_ Pale Blue Dot_, Carl Sagan, a cool video you can Youtube:_

_"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. . . . Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light."_

_And again from Mr. Sagan's film_ Cosmos:

_"Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us — there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries."_


	65. Numbers

**Chapter 65: Numbers**

On first sight Gray's house, the whole neighborhood, reminded Tony of his boarding school days.

The lawns were immaculate and the houses were elegant, gorgeous old clapboards and tasteful weathered brick, soaring trees lining driveways like valets. Gray's place was a rambling white colonial set well back from the street, shielded from view, just like its neighbors, on a big woodsy lot.

They abandoned the car by the curb and drew their guns, running over thick green grass, easing up porch steps to flank the door.

Ziva looked at him, a silent question, and Tony nodded. She eased her thumb over the latch, pressed gently. The heavy oak shifted a hairsbreadth and stopped. Locked.

She had her picks out a moment later, finessing the pins on the deadbolt. Another moment, a delicate shift in the mechanism of the lock, and she eased her hands away, drew her weapon once again.

He tilted his head at the door - she'd been the one to spot movement - and Ziva gestured to the left. She was leaning forward, focused and fierce, like a sprinter at the start.

"McGee," Tony whispered.

Ten seconds . . . fifteen . . . thirty . . . a minute.

"McGee," he tried again.

Minute fifteen . . . minute thirty . . .

Tony adjusted his stance. If Kort and McGee had run into trouble -

Ziva glanced behind them and then to Tony, back to the door and to Tony again, uneasy.

No Gibbs on the comm. No backup. And now silence from McGee. Tony fought down the hinky feeling clawing up his spine.

They held themselves still, straining to hear movement inside. But Tony only heard the faint purr and fade of a car making its way down the street. He looked back, scanned the trees, saw nothing but a calm, sunny spring day.

Another minute and they would have to scout around -

And then it came.

"Position," McGee whispered.

And Tony said, "Go."

**x**

McGee and Kort were supposed to walk from one backyard to another. But there were kids playing basketball in the driveway of the house directly behind Gray's. A man trimming hedges in the one next to that. They ditched the car three houses down, cut through to the backyard and then doubled back, jogging along a wild swath of trees and brush that separated the properties.

In summer it would have been good cover. But there weren't any leaves on the trees now, only dead ones that cracked and slipped underfoot, and twigs that dragged against their clothes, snapping and scraping, ridiculously loud. They were running, breath rasping as McGee first glimpsed the house through the branches. It was a classic, pretty colonial from the front. But the back was expanded, modern, and fitted with a wall of glass.

If the hit squad was good, if anyone in that house had the sense to keep watch, they'd already been spotted. And Gibbs said they _were_ good. The hit team, or the death squad, or whatever they were called. Gibbs said that Gray said they were good.

McGee concentrated on not falling, not slowing down. He scanned the back of the house for movement, hyper aware of every tree he passed, every swell in the ground under his feet, every possible cover.

If the squad was really good there wouldn't be any movement. Wouldn't be a chance for cover. There would just be running, and then nothing. Running, and game over - close now -

They broke through the trees and onto grass, totally exposed, moving hard over the lush green carpet. Slowed to cross a stone patio that led up to plate glass windows and a screened sliding door. Pressed themselves, finally, against the wood frame.

They weren't taking fire. They hadn't been spotted.

Or maybe they had been spotted, and the squad was waiting for them inside.

They paused to breathe, not nearly enough to recover, too long if the squad had seen them approach.

Kort peeked around the edge of the door, scanning whatever was visible through the glass. He gave it a nudge and it whispered back on its track. Turned and nodded to McGee.

"In position," McGee whispered.

Tony gave the go.

Kort pushed the door open. Stepped through. It was a big open space and Kort went in straight.

_Gibbs never goes straight_, McGee thought. Even as he was moving through the door. Not unless there were three of them, all at once—one straight, one left one right -

But he wasn't with his team. No Gibbs, no Tony Ziva Kate -

The sharp feeling clawing at Tim's gut wasn't new. But it was sharper now than it had ever been before, prickling through his body like a cold fire. It took his breath.

He stepped farther into the house, tile under his feet, and went left. Kort on one side, outer wall of the house on the other, sweeping the difference in a zig-zag, shoulder to floor, shoulder to ceiling. Not so fast you'll miss not so slow they'll get you. Tiles and fan and lighting and a gleaming steel fridge, counter – island –

McGee held his breath, adjusted the angle of his weapon, stepped swiftly around - nothing there.

He moved hurriedly on. Kort was faster than Gibbs had ever been.

It was dark in the next room, no light, no windows, and their breathing was loud. McGee held it, held against the ice screaming up his throat. They swept silent through a dining area, flowed around the table –

Gibbs' voice erupted in his ear, an impossible roar, and McGee reached swiftly to his earpiece, muted the volume.

They moved past open doors, no more than a glance - exposed now, should cover their six - but Kort only pushed forward, faster, silent over pile carpet -

And then a crack beneath him. McGee's own weight over a hardwood floor, like thunder.

Kort stilled, listening. Silence.

Then he was moving again, and McGee was following. Four rooms, a hallway, five rooms. Ziva and Tony would be in the next.

Another hall, a_ sixth_ room, had to be the next.

McGee jerked to the right. Looked up. Overhead, something muffled -

Movement -

A voice above them.

Kort halted, held up a hand, and McGee froze. Kort pointed, up and to the right, and then he was stalking right, through a door.

How could he move that fast and clear too, he _couldn't -_

McGee followed across a hall, ceiling-floor sweep, and Kort was already half-way up a thin staircase. Too thin, single file, fish in a barrel thin–

McGee stopped at the base, swept the hall again, shoulder-floor –

Another voice above them. Two voices. Footsteps on a wood floor.

A thud, something driven into a wall. A cry.

And then again, thud-cry.

Kort was almost to the top, McGee was half-way up, and Kort paused, covered McGee up the stairs, and then they were moving forward again and the hallway was wider here, lighter, sun streaming through skylights. They came to doorways, a glance into open rooms, no movement, bright colors - messy beds - empty -

They moved shoulder to shoulder down the hall. Low voices clearer now, muttering, and the high voice in distress - McGee's fear was a roar, a wave crashing all around.

And then it was gone. Everything was sharp and everything was far away. The ice in his gut turned hot, and they weren't moving fast enough.

The hallway opened out in front of them, a landing. Kort slowed, looked at McGee, and his eyes were pale, unbelievably calm. He tilted his head, left-right, and McGee nodded, and then they were moving again, faster -

Tim stepped to the edge of the wall concealing him, saw two guns.

He fired at the first, stepped past the wall, spotted two more, fired at the second. Moved left, firing, and finally the second fell and the third was shooting, close, McGee was practically on top of him, Kort firing to his right, and beyond that returning fire. Something flew into his face. He was blind, and he ducked down, shook his head, blinked.

Blasts from behind him now, glass shattering next to him, a woman cowering in front of him. He ran forward, pulled her to the left, to the hallway there and Ziva and Tony were running down it, Ziva yelling, and he pushed the woman to the right, against the wall out of the way, but the plaster next to her erupted, shards and dust. He turned and raised his gun and something lifted him up, flung him to the wall. He slammed into the woman, stumbled, fell right on top of her.

She was soft. He had to get off her, he was too heavy. But he couldn't move. He was too heavy.

He was panting and he had to stop, they would hear him. But he couldn't stop. Someone had taken all the air.

"McGee!"

Tony was shouting.

"No, a scratch – there isn't – ring a vest? . . . need to . . . you? No!"

Shouting at Kort now.

Good luck with that, McGee thought. Kort was insane. Shouting didn't work on insane people. The woman was gone and McGee missed her. She'd been warm, and now he was cold.

They weren't firing anymore. Tony and Ziva were hovering, arguing like always.

That meant they'd won.

"McGee?" Ziva was touching his face.

"Hey," he said. "We won."

"Yes," Ziva smiled. "We did."

"That lady okay?"

"She is fine."

Something was crushing him, burning him. It was bad.

"Ziva . . . I get hit?"

"Yes."

That didn't make sense.

He tried to tell her, but he couldn't breathe. He needed his inhaler.

He tried to get up, but they held him down.

**x**

The house behind them was already pouring smoke. Gibbs spun the car out of the lot and wove around the barricade at the end of the street, signaling to the men there to pack it in.

"South," Gray said. "Left on N."

Gibbs veered south, merging into early evening traffic, putting distance between them and the fire. His phone was buzzing, rattling like an angry hornet around the cupholder where he'd thrown it earlier. He reached down to silence it. "Where am I headed?"

Gray twisted in his seat, scanning the road behind them, checking for a tail. Darren did the same.

"Drop off in Ivy City." Gray sat forward again. "Five miles out. There," he pointed. A familiar black SUV sat idling in the empty end of a bank parking lot, waiting for them to drive by. "Follow him."

Gibbs slowed, gave Tomas time to slip back into traffic, to weave around Gibbs' car.

"Gray. Hey," Gibbs paused, made sure he was listening. "Let them take him to Ducky."

Gray ignored him.

"If you bring the body in to Ducky we can use the ballistics," Gibbs tried again. "The major gang players are in the system. We can track them down."

Gray shook his head. They drove in silence for a minute, making their way south, then west, following the SUV into a golden sunset. Gibbs was about to start in again when Darren shifted and leaned forward. "Got a call from MTAC for you, Gibbs."

"Yeah," Gibbs said, and Darren held up a phone. "Who am I talking to?"

"Agent Gibbs, this is Sarah - "

"Where's my team?"

"McGee was wounded at the house. David and Dinozzo are with him at Washington Central. Kort suggests you meet them there as quickly as possible."

Wounded. "Shot?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't - wait . . ." Voices in the background. She was on with Kort. "Yes, sir."

Gibbs scanned the road in front of him. Washington Central was east. Getting farther away.

"Condition?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know. I believe they're still enroute."

"What's the status at the house?"

"Barbi is dead. We have nine bodies total, no IDs yet on the rest."

Gibbs was silent, and Darren pulled the phone away.

"Wait." The phone came back. "Sarah, I want you with Kort at the house. It looks like some faction of MS-13 is hunting the kids, maybe a local cell hired by Barbi. If any of his team is still out there we need them alive. Check the bodies at the house, look for a gang connection. Anything we can use to track down the rest of them."

"Yes sir."

Darren spoke to Sarah briefly while Gibbs followed Tomas through a quiet warehouse district, and finally into a decrepit parking garage, one with hardly any cars. They blasted up three levels, making their way to a dim corner at the back of a deserted concrete deck. There was a third car already there. Cassie and another boy got out, walking toward them, and Tomas and Andy were climbing out of the SUV. Gray popped his door before Gibbs even stopped the car, already sliding out.

Gibbs turned to Darren. "Watch the perimeter."

"Got it. Hey Gibbs - " He passed his phone forward, the glowing screen a close up of a dead man's face. "Got pictures of most of them."

Gibbs took it and jogged after Gray.

They came together in a circle between the cars, standing silent for a long moment.

Gibbs held out the phone.

Tomas stepped forward, manipulating the images with fingers still tacky with blood. "Saw two of them this morning," he said after a moment. "Thought they were going to jump me. And then they were following me when I got out of class. Never seen the rest before."

He passed the phone to the boy next to him.

"What about everybody else?" Gibbs pressed. "Anybody else have contact?"

"No," Cassie said. "None of the houses are blown. They only found Truck. Only today."

Tomas shook his head. "Went to class and practice, like always. Picked up the kids like always. Same routine, different routes. Only saw those two this morning - "

"They spot you on the street first?" Cassie interrupted.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"So it was not the car. They recognized you," she said, slow. "How did they do that."

"You been at the Navy Yard every day this week," Gray said. Cassie and Tomas looked up. "Diablo knew I was there. Barbi buys someone there - "

"And they follow us out of the Yard?" Tomas said. "Followed me all yesterday, and then this morning to class? No way."

"It's not impossible to follow you," Gray said. "Barb's crew is good."

"Followed us home," Cassie said, "and then waited? Why? Followed him out this morning, but approached on foot, on some random street? Why? Why only him? Why not me? Why back off this morning, and come back in the afternoon?" She shook her head. "No. Plus those guys are not Barb's crew. Thugs, street boys - they didn't get us from the Yard."

Silence.

Gibbs took a breath. "If we take Bean's body into NCIS we can use ballistics, track their weapons. ID those guys," he gestured to the phone. "Look into the money flow, follow it - "

"Take weeks," Gray said, impatient. "Months."

Another pause, considering.

Cassie tilted her head, thinking aloud. "Barb's pay could be anything anyway. Maybe money. Maybe product, guns - another hit somewhere, anywhere. Could take years to track it, if you ever did."

The others nodded agreement.

"Well what do you suggest?" Gibbs said.

"Figure it out," Cassie replied calmly. "Barbi has a team in town. He contracts with local 13. Two of them spot Truck. He warns them off. They wait, get some friends, chase him down."

"Yeah. But how they know me?" Tomas said. "And then two of his people just get lucky and spot me?"

"Maybe it is not Barbi - "

"It's him." Gray said.

"But how do they know me - "

"Gibbs' team has pictures of us," Gray said. "From before. Surveillance from Colombia. Goes back years."

Silence, like after a bomb.

"My team is secure," Gibbs said steadily.

Silence. And awareness, in Gibbs' mind. Darren standing by the car, eyes on the perimeter. Turned away from them. Every single one of these kids carrying. Guns at their backs, at their ankles -

"But who had them before you?" Cassie said slowly.

"CIA. Colombian Intelligence," Gray spat. "Who cares? If Gibbs could dig it up Diablo could do the same. He sees them, buys them, gets the pictures to Barbi. Barbi sends them out to local 13. They see Tomas."

"Just luck," Andy spoke for the first time. "They just see him?"

"Not luck," Cassie said. Her voice was terrible, faint, and Gibbs frowned at her. "Oh shit. Not luck. It's numbers. How many MS-13 here?" She glanced at Gray, at Gibbs. "Gotta be - "

"You think - all of them?" Tomas stared at her. At Gray.

"Hundreds," Gray said.

"Said he flew into Philly," Cass shook her head. "If he contracted Philly, DC, Baltimore - that is - "

"Thousands," Gray said.

"Barbi runs a squad. He's not that big," the boy next to Cassie broke in. "And Diablo is dead. How's a dead guy pay for that."

They didn't know it was Londono, Gibbs realized. Gray hadn't told them.

_What if it's not Barbi. And it never was Diablo_, Gibbs thought. _What if - _

"What if it is not Barbi," Cassie said. "Or Diablo. What if it's Londono."

Another bomb, sucking out all the air.

"Looking for Sean," Tomas said into the quiet. He looked at Gray. "He sends Barb's squad. But he got pictures too. Cartel's been pushing into Mexico, working with 13 to sell into the States. The Calera's got to be 13's best supplier down there."

_Making millions_, thought Gibbs. _Tens of millions, easy - _

"Wouldn't even have to pay them," Andy said. "He could have every 13 cell looking for us, just to keep his business. He could hire the East Coast."

Silence.

And Gray nodded.

"Let us move the kids to safe houses," Gibbs tried.

Cassie dismissed that immediately. "Cells do not know where we are. Londono doesn't either. All they have is our pictures. We need to lay low, not move around. Who could they have?" She turned to Gray, glanced at Gibbs, searching. "They have us all?"

"No," Gray said. "They got me. Cop, Truck, Hook, Jay. Mads, maybe." He looked at Gibbs. "Were there more than what I saw?"

Gibbs shrugged. "You saw everything we have that connected to you. But we didn't pull photos of kids we didn't recognize."

"There could be more," Cassie said.

"Yeah." Gibbs glanced around at the faces in the circle. "But - "

"Truck is the one who looks most the same," Gray said. "The younger ones look different."

"Tomas, Cassie and Gray are the most recognizable," Gibbs agreed.

The faces relaxed, slightly. Some of them.

"He knows Kort is here, we are here. He's got the connection to the CIA and NCIS," Cassie muttered. "Gibbs gets rescued, Gray's mom gets taken, Diablo disappears. And he sends a squad."

"Sends an army," Andy said.

Cassie nodded, looked from Tomas to Gray. "He is moving on us."

Silence. Expectant, now. Waiting. The others' eyes were on Gray, on Cassie and Tomas.

"Yeah," Tomas said. "Agree."

Gibbs crossed his arms against the chill that ran down his spine. "I can get local PD to crack down. Haul in the ringleaders, that'll disorganize them."

"For seventy-two hours?" Tomas scoffed.

"We can hold them longer than that."

"Only the ones with bad lawyers. And how many of them? Local PD, even Feds, they might give you twenty, fifty guys," Cassie said. "Right?"

Gibbs looked back at her, calculating. If they brought in the boy -

"Even with a dead kid in your morgue," she said, "you get a hundred be lucky, and only for a few days. MS-13 probably has a thousand from Philly to Virginia."

"Who do _we_ have?" Gray asked. "Local?"

"To do what?" Gibbs said. "Mow down a thousand gangbangers?"

"AK," Cassie said immediately.

The others shook their heads. "Already in with the cartel," Tomas said. "We made sure of that."

"Gray," Gibbs said, "Look, any of you - you get hauled in for murder and even the CIA won't be able to get you out."

Silence for a moment.

"That 18th Street guy you pounded," Cassie said. "Back over Christmas."

"The one sold the shit stuff to Diego?" The boy next to her, Gibbs still didn't know who that was. Jay? Mads?

"His brother was high up 18th, wasn't he?" Cassie prodded.

"Yeah," Truck said. "Danny or Dizzy, something like that."

Gray frowned. "Doesn't matter. Dizzy went away."

"Got out," Andy said firmly. "And he calls himself Deuce. Saw him last week, down at that same bar he sold at before."

The others looked at her, and she shrugged. "Told you I'd get him."

Tomas and Cassie were looking at Gray now. Waiting.

"Okay," Gray said quietly. Blood in it. "Let's talk to Deuce."

Gibbs closed his eyes. The 18 Street Gang. Not as big in the Mid-Atlantic as MS-13. But close. And hungry. "Gray - "

"We'll try not to get arrested. You should go see your geek, Gibbs," Gray said. He was already walking away, Cassie and Tomas walking with him. "You can tell him I said hi, if he's still alive."

"Gray!" Gibbs called. "Darren goes with you."

Gray paused, looked back, real surprise on his face. "What?"

Gibbs didn't answer and Gray looked past him, to the man standing by the NCIS sedan, watching them both. Gray shrugged, turned away again.

Darren jogged forward, silent, and got into the car behind Gray.

**x**

He checked the ER first. They gave him a surgeon's name, pointed him to the elevators. He followed signs to the surgical wing, found Ducky sitting in a deserted lobby, talking to a nurse.

"What's the status?"

"Jethro!" Ducky surged to his feet. Faltered as he looked him over. "Are you alright?"

"Status on McGee?"

Ducky's nurse friend excused herself. He watched her go, and then turned back to Gibbs.

"Critical, I'm afraid. The bullet missed his spine but not much else. Surgeons are working to repair an arterial tear and fractured pelvis. He has bone fragmentation through the abdomen, damage to the intestine, right kidney, stomach, that we know of - "

Gibbs must have looked shocked. Ducky broke off, sympathetic. "But blood loss is the most serious concern at the moment."

"He going to make it?"

Ducky pursed his lips. "We had an update half an hour ago that was promising. But he's been in surgery less than two hours at this point. It's too soon to tell."

Gibbs looked away, at the floor, and the heavy swinging doors separating them from the surgical bay. Ducky watched him, patient.

"How long till we know?"

"If he survives the surgery - the next eight hours or so - his chances improve. Why don't you sit down, Jethro?"

Gibbs' eyes swept the empty chairs. "Where's the team?"

"Ziva took Abby to the cafeteria a few moments ago. Tony - " Ducky pointed to a black wall of windows at the far end of the room. The dark was spotted with yellow streetlights, and beyond, the bright dome of the Capitol. Tony was leaning against a silver handrail, looking out at the traffic. He didn't seem to notice Gibbs' approach.

"What happened?"

"Boss." Tony actually turned the other way, looked over his shoulder to scan the lobby. "Where's the kid?"

"What happened, Dinozzo."

Tony looked at him, then. Eyes pleading, dark, all mixed up, like when Jenny died.

Gibbs leaned against the rail next to him.

"Ziva and I went in the front. McGee went in the back, with Kort."

Gibbs nodded.

"Big house. We went in quiet. Cleared most of the front rooms on the first floor, heard movement up on the second floor. Heard a woman crying. We had to double back, to get to the stairs . . ." Tony considered the night in front of him, followed the progress of a man walking along the sidewalk below them. "Guess that's how Kort and McGee got there first. They went up the back stairs. But they're not in the back, really. They're in the middle of the house. We heard shots, a lot of fire. Ran - " He frowned.

"And?"

"Kort and McGee just - went in so fast. Well - " Tony leaned forward against the rail, straightened up again, frustrated. Angry. "Probie, you know - boy scout. And Kort's a lone ranger, so you know how that goes too. Turns out there were five of them up there, questioning this woman. And little Timmy couldn't wait."

"What woman?"

"Name's Maya." Tony shrugged, staring hard at the dark, and then at Gibbs' reflection in the glass. "She's a nanny for the kids."

He hadn't heard anything about a nanny. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Tony scrubbed a dirty hand through his hair. It was stiff with old blood. "Kort knows her. She lives there usually. When Diablo showed up and the kids moved into the safe houses Gray gave her time off, said he'd be in touch. She came back to the house to pick up some stuff . . . clothes, she said. Barbi had these five guys watching the house. They followed her in and called him. We followed Barbi to the house . . . "

And Ziva spotted a woman inside. Gibbs sent the team in, but - "But Barbi wasn't in the house when you went in," he said. "Was he?"

"Hey, there it is," Tony mocked. "The voice of experience. Next time you should come along."

"You heard fire," Gibbs said. "And - ?"

Tony turned to stare at him. Gibbs watched him back, expressionless, until Tony turned away again.

"Yeah." He was quiet now. "Turns out McGee's a good shot. Took out two guys before Ziva and I even got there. Kort had the other two. But the third guy - Zee and I, we had no shot. It all went down in this hallway. McGee and the woman, Maya, they were in the crossfire. And Kort was behind them." Tony frowned. "I saw Tim stumble, he had - " Tony gestured toward his own head. "He got nicked, or cut or something. Blood all over his face. But he - I think the head wound . . ." Tony scratched his own head, blood flaking off his hair. "They said that wasn't serious. Couple stitches. The bullet, though, there's bone - "

"He got winged, he flinched," Gibbs said. "What next."

"Yeah, he - looked fine. He got to Maya first and he just picked her up, like the Hulk, pushed her into the wall, out of the way. The third guy - I got him, I think. But then four more guys came in behind him, shooting. It was like - " Another frown. A pause. "They followed Kort and McGee. Only two entrances to that landing."

Gibbs waited for a moment. "And one of them was Barbi?"

"Yeah. One of them was - one of them got McGee, he fell. And I think - then Ziva - we were right there on top of them, in close." Tony glanced at him. "I mean right on top of them. I think - " Tony paused, looked confused. "I think she and Kort took them out hand-to-hand. Happened fast."

"You and Ziva alright?"

"Yeah." Tony scratched absently at his head again, caught Gibbs looking him over. He focused on his own hands then, finally, and seemed surprised. "This is McGee's," Tony said. "I'm fine. Ziva's fine. Kort - seemed fine. I don't know. I wanted to call an ambulance. Kort said no, since we're not on the clock. And I uh -" Tony shrugged. Straightened. "Tim was bleeding like maybe we didn't have time for an ambulance anyway, so I figured - but then Kort wanted to _carry_ him down to the car - "

Tony sputtered to a halt, unable to go on. Like that was the most horrifying part of all.

"No good?"

"Are you fucking ser - ?"

Gibbs smiled a little.

"You are," Tony deflated. "Sorry. I guess neither of you took anatomy over there in super killer spy school, huh?"

Gibbs raised his eyebrows.

"Anyway," Tony sighed. "Kort said there were boards in the garage. And there were, like a wood pile. So we carried him out on one of those. Wedged him into the back of the sedan. McGee was off his head, saying weird things. Kept saying we were wrong, he couldn't have got shot because he was wearing a vest."

"Was he?"

"Yeah. Went in - " Tony touched his blood smeared shirt where it was tucked into his pants, " - right under the belt."

"Kort stayed at the house?"

"Yeah. I guess - clean up."

"Yeah," Gibbs said. Nine bodies. "I guess so."

They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Gibbs pulled out his phone, scrolled through his speed dials. "Ducky said it'll be another eight hours before we know anything. Got work to do."

Tony looked at him. Really looked. And stilled. In the blink of an eye he was sharp again, the confusion and the doubt pushed away. "You think Barbi had more with him. More than eight?"

"Yeah. Looks like a few more."

Tony pushed away from the handrail. "What happened with Gray?"

Gibbs looked his second over. "Clean up, Tony. Get Ziva back here and I'll fill you in."

"Yeah, I - okay." He took a step away. Turned back. Sharp as he ever was. "But where's the kid, Boss?"

"Recruiting." Gibbs said, already dialing. "Picking a fight. Starting a war. Now go get your partner and get back here."


	66. A Hero Like McGee

**Chapter 66: A Hero Like McGee**

"Yeah."

Fornell answered on the third ring, sleepy and hoarse.

Waited.

And heard nothing.

Problem was, Gibbs had dialed before he figured out what he was going to say. He held the phone to his ear and let his eyes track a pair of nurses, whispering together, walking sneaker-soft across the hospital lobby.

Tobias pulled the phone away, squinted at the display. Groaned.

"Gibbs, seriously. Somebody _will_ be dead. You even know what time it is?"

"No." _  
><em>

"Well this better be good."

Silence. And Fornell started to get a bad feeling.

"Gibbs? You drunk?"

Gibbs put his elbows on his knees and bowed his head, because it felt too heavy, in that moment, to hold up. He closed his eyes, saw blood welling up from a boy's body. Rubbed them back open. "No."

Fornell sat up, groping for the light by the bed, making an effort to speak clearly. Gibbs didn't sound . . . entirely there. "What's going on, Jethro?"

Gibbs winced. _You don't know me_, the kid said. You don't know me.

"Tobias," he said softly. "It's not good."

Fornell's fingers brushed the switch at the base of the lamp. "Okay."

Gibbs nodded, cleared his throat. Okay. "You have anyone undercover here in DC? Gangs or drugs?"

Fornell was halfway out of bed. "Maybe."

"You need to get them out. Pull them now."

"I can't just - "

"Now, Tobias."

Silence. And then - "What's going on, Gibbs?"

"Meet me at Washington Central?"

Fornell paused, pants halfway over his knees. Gibbs' people went to Bethesda.

"Everybody alright?"

Gibbs closed his eyes, shook his head.

"Yeah, okay." Fornell yanked a shirt off a hanger. "I can meet you. When?"

"Get your people off the street first," Gibbs said. "I'll be here."

He hung up, and Fornell let the phone drop from his shoulder into his hand, the other already scooping up his keys. He had the gang unit director on speed dial, and punched her up as he pushed out the door.

**x**

Hospital lots tended to feel wide awake no matter what time it was, in Fornell's experience.

It was a black night, no moon, but the parking lot at Central was lit up bright as day. It felt hushed, expectant, even though it was deserted. He parked and hurried through the cold toward the entrance, and then he felt it. Eyes on him.

He turned casually, still moving. His sweep zeroed in on a bench in the shadows off the walkway. This time he looked close enough to spot the wink of spectacles, streetlights on glass, and the curious blue eyes staring back at him.

He shifted course, walking closer. "Dr. Mallard?"

The doctor didn't move, and Tobias felt a little itch, somewhere in the back of his memory. Had Gibbs' doctor always been a doctor? Just a doctor?

More than once it'd been brought home to him that he didn't really know much about Gibbs, however much he felt like he _knew_ Gibbs. He'd never considered Gibbs' ME too closely before. But something about the way he was sitting there -

"Agent Fornell. Hello."

The doctor's shrewd eyes were steady, no surprise at seeing Fornell here. But none of Gibbs' people were exactly dumb.

Tobias let his own gaze roam over the building in front of him, big and bright and quiet. Still he felt uneasy.

He turned back to the doctor. "This isn't your regular haunt, is it, doc?"

"I go where I'm called."

"Right." Tobias glanced around again, took another step toward the doors. "Me too."

"You know you don't have to go in, Agent Fornell." The doctor's voice was mild, but it carried in the cold, quiet air.

"Excuse me?"

The blue eyes were beyond shrewd now - they were piercing, sharp, like ice. Fornell felt himself waver.

The things he didn't know about Gibbs - those were the details, usually. But sometimes they were more than details. They were the context, the subtext, the things between the lines. Whatever they were, those parts of their lives, Gibbs' life especially, were closed for good reason. Or they had been.

"This isn't your . . . mess. He would understand." Mallard rummaged in the pocket of his coat and pulled out an old-fashioned pipe. He squinted into the bowl, and after a moment' consideration, tapped it against the bench. "He might very well be relieved."

Sure he would. Gibbs didn't like asking for help. And he'd already said this was a bad one. That's why he needed the help.

Anyway, if Fornell didn't pick up the phone when the call came - if he didn't walk through the dark doorways, or even kick them in - well, he wouldn't be in this job, wouldn't be who he was. He took another step toward the old man. "Sounds like he's gotten himself into a jam."

"Jethro knows how to get himself out of a jam, Agent Fornell." Mallard struck a match. His face glowed yellow and orange, chased by blue shadows as he cupped the flame to the pipe and inhaled the first draw of smoke. "But you won't find the formula in the FBI rule book."

Ah. "Good thing I'm off the clock then. And you can just call me Tobias."

Mallard considered him, savoring the flavor of the smoke, and Fornell shivered against the night wind. A newspaper chased by a papercup skidded across the lot, the scrape of it loud against the asphalt.

"You'd better go in." The doctor said. "If you're going. You should find them on the 9th floor."

Fornell nodded, took another step toward the doors. He frowned, looking around the eerie lot again. "You staying out here?"

Mallard shifted, smiled, and the eerie feeling was sucked away. "The company isn't half bad."

He smiled, innocent eyes twinkling, and Fornell shook his head and hurried in, out of the cold.

**x**

Four hours later the sun was coming up, flooding the ninth floor conference room they'd taken over, and Fornell took a break to stretch his neck, swilling the last of his stone cold coffee. He grimaced, thinking back on the doctor's words.

If there was a rule in the FBI rule book that he hadn't broken since he'd walked into this room, he'd be surprised.

"Yeah." Dinozzo rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Doesn't matter, anything you got. Anything you want. Just hold them. . . Yeah, good . . . okay buddy, you too." He shut his phone. "District three's on board Boss. They're picking up the highest ranking MS-13 they can find."

Gibbs nodded, bent over a laptop with his fierce-looking assassin-Mossad agent on one side and his barely holding it together goth tech on the other. "Follow up with - "

"Following up with Baltimore, Boss, got it."

"Hey, vacation's over, G-man." The hulk sitting next to Fornell glared at him and then at the seat. Tobias sat back down, stifling a sigh.

"First name Emilio," Rodge read off his laptop, "last name Juncos, known associate of MS-13 and our friend Juan Mendez." He indicated the snapshot taped to the wall behind him for Fornell's benefit, a peaceful looking man against a fuzzy beige background, all of it normal except for the eyes, which were brown and dead. He was one of the ones the David girl killed bare handed, apparently.

"Emilio's DOB, 08-13-75, convicted 6-20-07, trafficking, laundering, Hondurus-Mexico-Houston-DC. Out on 12-20-10. Skipped parole, last known addy 6940 Garland Street, Baltimore."

Fornell pecked at his own keyboard, the machine buzzing with 20 open windows. " . . . n-c-o-s. 12-20-10," he muttered. They waited, staring at the screen.

Bingo.

"Flagged in Mexico two months later, 2-17-11, Oaxaca."

Fornell met the hulk's eyes over their laptops. "DC to southern Mexico. Money mover."

Rodge nodded. "Moving between a player here and one in Mexico, or Hondurus maybe. MS-13 territory for sure."

"Didn't figure out a new game in two months," Fornell muttered. "He's using his old contacts. We need this guy's case file . . ." He bent to his computer.

"And he's not moving that fast by land or sea," Rodge mused. "Ziva doll?" He scribbled the name and dates on a notecard and slipped it into the stack under Ziva's hand. "Emilio Juncos, airports, Mexico." She nodded, silent, taking diction with her right hand from her contact at Interpol.

A woman perched on the window ledge paused in her typing and snapped her fingers. The room fell silent.

"Have one," she announced. "121 Highland Ave, District 1, cops called in on shots fired, time 0604 . . . home of Victor Brooks, affiliation 18th Street Gang, firearms in the home. Multiple fatalities on scene. . . . Victor Brooks dead on scene. . . . " She pressed one of the earphones closer into her ear, continued rapidly. "Juan Mendez, affiliation MS-13, dead on scene. Salvador Porto, affiliation MS-13, dead on scene. Fourth unidentified male, dead on scene."

"Dinozzo." Gibbs' eyes drifted from Sarah to his second, and back to the financials Abby was scrolling through. "Find out if that Juan Mendez is Ziva's Juan Mendez."

Dead-guy-at-Gray's-house Juan Mendez?

Tony frowned. "How could that be - ?"

Gibbs wasn't listening, and Tony already knew how that could be, anyway.

Kort, that's how.

Tony hung up on Baltimore and called District 1.

_Salvador Porto,_ Fornell mused. Salvador Porto. Salvador -

"Porto," he muttered. "Salvador - wait a second." He poked at his laptop. "Yeah. Salvador Porto, he's here, this case . . . I remember this. Served eight months for assault, pegged as an enforcer for Emilio Juncos."

Gibbs looked up, just as fierce now as when they'd started hours ago, and pushed. "Anyone serious tied to Porto here in DC?"

"Hold on . . . yeah, three guys brought in on that case, big fish I think," Fornell recalled. "One flipped and testified. Couldn't pin anything to the other two, they walked - here it is. Ruben Cadena, last known . . . wait, he got busted. Lemme try the other one . . . "

Gibbs' stare was like a physical weight.

"Yeah, here. Thomas Cruz, 930 South Bayes Street in Arlington, Crystal City."

Abby was typing, nodding, red eyes wide. "He's still there."

"Porto to Juncos to Cruz," Rodge said. "Gray's following it back up the chain, from Mendez. Somebody needs to talk to Cruz."

It was the first name they'd pinned before Gray did. The first name that wasn't already a body on the police scanner, anyway, and the room fell quiet again.

Only for a moment.

"Have one," Sarah said. "Maybe. Drive-by off Sheridan Circle, two killed four wounded, MS-13. Suspect's vehicle a dark sedan, partial plate Lima-Yankee-November-5."

Rodge shook his head. "Sloppy. Sounds like that's actually 18th Street, starting to retaliate."

Tony jiggled irritably, first his foot, then his hand against his phone. "They've noticed the trail of their freshly murdered people is surrounded by dead MS-13, then."

And it was already in the streets. Cutting down the youngest, the most vulnerable first. Innocent bystanders weren't far off, if none had already been caught in the crossfire.

Gray's strategy was clear enough. Londono had found someone high enough in MS-13 to order the hits. Gray would work his way up the organization and find that person. He would have the hit rescinded - he would probably have that person rescinded - and the promise of a reward removed.

In the meantime the war he'd ignited so easily between the two gangs would be a good distraction, keep them hunting each other instead of hunting him. The absurd level of violence would also cover Gray's bloody tracks.

Tracks about to get bloodier.

The faster it was over, Gibbs reasoned, the faster the violence on all fronts would stop. The faster Gray would come in.

Gibbs spoke to the Rangers sitting across the table, aware of his team's and Tobias' eyes on him.

"You have a way to contact him?"

Rodge shook his head. "He'll send a runner."

A runner?

"Why not a pigeon?" Gibbs muttered, and took out his phone. "I'll try his cell."

Pete, on the far side of Rodge, looked up from his piles of bank statements and wire transers for the first time since Fornell walked in. And spoke for the first time, too. "Whose cell?"

Gibbs punched up the number, hit dial. "Gray's."

_Gray's cell?_ Rodge mouthed.

Fornell raised his eyebrows. Gibbs was handing Cruz over to the no-name kids then, whatever that meant. Not anything very good for Cruz, if the police scanner the last few hours was anything to go by.

Fornell focused on the name in front of him, some business partner's of Emilio's. But what he saw was Angela Monaco, her quick laugh and tiny engagement ring. Her limp hands when they'd fished her out of the river. He thought about Dargas' kid, the fresh-faced picture on his college ID, the blue skin of his head under the lights of the NCIS morgue. His mother kept asking about her son's body - all the way through the funeral, she kept asking. As if the answer would change, must change. As if anyone could ever understand it.

Setting the same thing loose on their behalf wasn't right. It wasn't good. And for this kid - it was bad. Judging from the weight in Gibbs' eyes, the anger, it was very bad. Fornell knew enough to know that, of course.

Right now, right in this moment, he just didn't care. They had to stop this cartel. Somebody had to stop them, and this team was it. He didn't know what the pictures were, exactly, that were driving the others gathered around the table, pushing them to take the risk that sitting here meant. Pushing the kid out there toward a cliff, into a fall they might not be able to pull him back out of. But Fornell didn't imagine their daydreams were any prettier than his own.

Gibbs listened to the automated message service that picked up whenever he dialed Gray's number. At the tone he spoke clearly, to ensure being heard. "We've traced Emilio Juncos to Mexico, he's probably still there. Not a dead end but no known movement in the States in the last month. He has a substantial contact here though, name's Thomas Cruz. 930 Bayes Street, Arlington." He opened his mouth to say something else. Hesitated. "Watch your back. Come in if you run into trouble." He tapped a finger on the file next to him. Felt Abby's eyes on him. "Or just - come in."

He ended the call and they went back to their computers and their phones and their scanners. Not ten minutes later Ducky walked in, followed by a surgeon, an older man. They all stood up just as he was sitting down.

He was kind and he smiled. He patted Abby's hand and said that McGee had a long road ahead of him. A long road.

Abby turned away from her computer, away from the table. She pulled Gibbs into a hug, and she finally cried.

**x**

There was yelling when Kort showed up. From Dinozzo mostly, about bodies - dead ones and wounded ones - and something about procedure clearing houses. Gibbs ignored it, Abby slept through it, and the hulk named Rodge watched halfheartedly, distracted and amused. Like Tony and Kort were a Saturday morning cartoon, one playing at a funeral. Fornell got up to take a leak, grabbed a couple of Pop Tarts from the vending machine, and checked in with his own team. They were attached to the gang unit for the weekend, blindly grilling the MS-13 and 18th Street hotshots Fornell had organized hauling in the night before.

Dinozzo and Kort were still hissing at each other when Fornell came back, like cats in a bag. His eyes wandered over Ziva as he settled down again. She was still working next to Gibbs, ignoring the two men squabbling over her. Literally standing over her.

Cats in a bag - more like tom cats in an alley, Fornell thought. He munched a Pop Tart and offered half to the Hulk.

Gibbs left off the family tree of gang members Abby'd made for him before she passed out and eyed Kort carefully. The man had just collapsed into an armchair, his fine suit - his whole being - a wreck. He smelled like smoke and blood.

"Were you on scene at Highland Avenue?" Gibbs broke in.

Kort and Dinozzo abruptly fell silent.

Kort looked confused, through the exhaustion. "No. What's at Highland Avenue?"

"The home of an 18th Street gangmember," Tony said, caustic. "Recently deceased. And also on Highland Avenue is one of the dead MS-13 guys Ziva killed yesterday, although when we left you with his body it was on the other side of the city. Care to explain?"

Kort leaned back into the chair. "Gray sent a runner to the house, to his house, after you left. Said he could use the bodies. We arranged a pick-up." He shrugged at Tony's glare and glanced listlessly at Ziva. She was still on the phone with Interpol, looking unconcerned. "What? It's convenient. They've all been cleaned, anyway. However Gray decides to use them they can't be tied back to you."

Ziva nodded perfunctorily, as if she'd assumed all that with only one ear on the conversation. Tony grit his teeth, visibly sitting on his frustration.

"Where've you been then, Shorty?" Rodge gazed at the CIA Agent enviously. "You reek like a fight."

"You do." Pete looked up, looked Kort over. Seemed satisfied he wasn't going to drop over dead, and went back to his accounts.

Kort ran a hand over his shorn head and frowned at the layer of grit that came off in his palm. "There was an explosion at the home of a Swiss national in Silver Spring a few hours ago. At one of his homes, I should say. Name is Yves Genvier. The Agency asked me to look into it."

"Because?" Gibbs queried.

"There are questions around Genvier's connections in South America and his ability to move material between South America, the States and Europe. He may have ties to the Calera organization, to the Zetas, to the Sinaloa," he shrugged. "Possibly more."

"He may?" Gibbs said sharply. "Not he did? He wasn't in the house?"

Kort's eyes drifted to the window. "The house was incinerated. It will be days before investigators know if anyone was there or not."

So Gray could have had him, and killed him. Or Gray could still have him. Or, Tony supposed, Gray could have missed him altogether.

"Didn't hear about that," Sarah noted.

"It was billed as a run-of-the-mill house fire," Kort said. "Genvier isn't on law enforcement's radar, they wouldn't attach any special notice to it."

Tony watched an odd sort of recognition smooth over Rodge's face. "So you think this was Gray?" Tony asked. "He know this guy?"

"I don't know if Gray knows him," Kort sighed. "But I wouldn't be surprised. It wasn't a house fire. Too thorough, too convenient. As to why, a man like Genvier could be holding millions in money or material at any given time, not to mention his intel if he really is a point of contact for half a dozen cartels. He also doesn't seem to be known any better by the criminal underworld than he is by us. From what I could see his security is minimal."

"Easy mark," Gibbs said. "High yield."

"Yeah."

"Not to mention," Rodge added, offhand, "Cop girl's a dab hand at explosives."

The NCIS Agents glanced curiously from Rodge to Kort.

"Cassie? That so?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes," Kort said, reluctant.

"A gas leak-esque, looks like an accident, perfectly reasonable-ish house fire that burns hot enough to incinerate a body and would not raise the suspicions of a fire investigator," Tony clarified. "That kind of explosion."

"Yes."

"Not to mention all the other kinds," Rodge murmured.

Pete reached over, and with an impressive bicep press tipped the other man out of his chair, not even appearing to lose his place in the tiny print covering the reams of paper in front of him. "Shut up, Rodge. And go get us some breakfast."

Rodge lumbered off.

Fornell shook his head and went back to his unauthorized, completely illegal file search.

He was not hearing any of this.

There was a reason you were supposed to clear out of the house when the termites were winning and the exterminators came fumigating. It wasn't good to even be exposed to that stuff. Stick around and the poison that got rid of the bugs would get you, too.

**x**

By 1100 they'd moved McGee into a private room with an honest to god private nurse, just a few doors down from where the team was set up. Abby curled into an armchair at his side and stared at him for an hour, listening to the compress of air, to the beep of the monitors and the click of the dials. Eventually she drifted into sleep.

Gibbs left another message and another name for Gray. When he couldn't put it off any longer he got up and walked down the hall to make a call to Vance that ended up taking longer than he'd have liked. The gang violence was heating up, Gray's strategy to ignite a war between two of DC's most vicious criminal networks working like a charm, and law enforcement was buzzing.

When Gibbs walked back toward McGee's room Dinozzo was perched in a chair a bit down the hall, studiously not watching the tall man standing at the oversized window looking into McGee's room. Gibbs paused, cautious of security even in this ultra-secure ward, until he recognized him and strode forward.

He wondered at Tony's watchfulness, at his distance. But only for a moment, because after a moment he was there. He held out a hand. "Admiral McGee, sir. Jethro Gibbs."

He was taller than Tim, his hair darker and shorter. The color of the green eyes was the same. McGee looked Gibbs over once and dismissed him. "I know who you are."

An awkward beat, and Gibbs let his empty hand fall. He squared his shoulders again. "Is there anything - "

"No."

Gibbs forced himself to keep it relaxed. He'd dealt with angry families before. He'd dealt with all kinds. "Admiral, if you - "

"My son chooses to work with you," McGee interrupted. His eyes were still on the bundled up body lying beyond the glass. "Chooses to take orders from you and to listen to what a man like you has to say." A thoughtful pause, or a cold one. "My son is naive. Impressionable. Maybe even corrupt. But I am none of those things, Agent Gibbs. And I'd rather not listen to your apologies for the state Tim is in. Or to your lack of them."

"Sir - "

"How about this, Special Agent Gibbs." Gibbs drew back, somewhat. McGee senior said the title like an insult. "If you don't remove yourself from my presence I'll have you arrested." McGee glanced from his son to Gibbs, the haunting green eyes lingering for a long moment. "My clearance is extensive and I know your . . . record. It wouldn't be difficult to come up with charges that would see you in prison for the rest of your life. The first might explore why my son, ostensibly an NCIS agent, isn't being cared for at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Or why there is no record of his being wounded, even though he's obviously been shot and nearly killed. On your watch. Now if you'll get out of my sight."

Gibbs spun on his heel and headed to where Dinozzo was sitting, still carefully studying his shoes. But he'd only moved forward a half-step when a slight form melted out of an alcove right next to him, blocking his way. Gibbs teetered to a halt, almost smashing into him.

Alex peered over Gibbs shoulder without actually paying him any mind. He was eyeing McGee senior. "Who's this fucktard?"

It was loud enough to echo through the corridor.

"Alex. Watch your mouth," Gibbs said, mild, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder to steer him around. "And come with me."

"No seriously." Alex slipped the hold on his shoulder, deceptively easy, and stepped around Gibbs to stare at the man behind him. "Who's the creepy fuckwit? He been hanging around McGee's room?"

He dodged Gibbs' hand like a cat.

"None of your business," Gibbs said, low.

"Well we should stay here! _McGee_ would want you around." He slipped out of Gibbs' grip again, so skinny it was like trying to hold string. Then he started whispering in a theatrically loud way. "I'm good, Agent Gibbs, really. You can concentrate on McGee. Is that asshole McGee's _dad_? Should we call _security_?"

"Alex," Gibbs growled, crowding him back. "Can it."

The urgent whisper, nonsensical in the face of Gibbs' calm, only grew more hysterical. "But, Agent Gibbs! Somebody has to stay with McGee! What if he wakes up to that - "

From the corner of his eye Gibbs caught the stiff, silent man's turn. Saw him begin to walk away.

Alex grinned in triumph. " - numbnut bastard! He should have _you_ - "

Gibbs seized the kid's elbow and started dragging him in the opposite direction. Alex didn't seem to notice.

" - You or your team, you know," he called, and laughed after the retreating man's back. "Somebody a _hero_ like McGee would want around!"

The door at the end of the hall swung shut as Gibbs pushed Alex through the conference room door and let loose. "What the _hell_?"

But Alex only slipped his grip again, fiercely this time, and in a blur was out of reach. When he stilled his hand was at his waist, the room was frozen, and his voice had turned flat and serious. "Who're they?"

His eyes wavered between Fornell and Sarah.

"Fornell," Gibbs said, pointing. "Sarah. Our team." He turned to Alex, jerked out a chair. "Sit. You even think about pulling a weapon in this hospital and so help me I'll find a way to hogtie you, one arm and all."

Alex relaxed and flopped down into the chair. "You could try."

Gibbs breathed, once. Twice. "That was McGee's father - "

Alex perked up. "Want me to take care of him?"

Gibbs deliberately pulled up a chair and sat down across from him, knee-to-knee. He leaned in close and pinned Alex's curious gaze with his own. "You are never going to have anything to do with that man ever again. Nothing, of any kind. Are we clear?" He let himself yell at the end there, a little anyway.

Alex's eyes were big, unblinking. The room held its breath. "Yeah. No need to screech."

Gibbs adjusted his shoulders, leaned in even closer, and lowered his voice to menacing. "That man is McGee's father - "

"Bastard," Alex noted, calm. "I did him a favor. Just cause you . . . "

Gibbs held up a hand, staring fit to kill, and Alex trailed off.

" - and their relationship is none of your business. Do you get that?"

"Okay." Alex agreed easily. "Whatever you say, Gibbs."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, truly and seriously pissed, and Alex smiled back at him.

"Sooo . . ." Pete broke the silence. "If I may ask. What're you doing here, Hook?"

Alex's eyes shifted over toward the Rangers. "Cruz was good, gave up a lot of names," he said promptly, nodding toward Gibbs. "But a lot of them are locked up already. One of the main ones is William Falto, 04-08-60. Need his contacts."

"I can look that up," Sarah offered, hesitant. She looked uncertain about taking her eyes off of the kid, though, and Fornell didn't blame her. He definitely wasn't going to. Kid was carrying, for one. In this hospital, which was insane. And on top of that he was himself clearly insane.

Gibbs nodded curtly her way, and she brought up the arrest record and then the trial record. The home and basic financial records Dinozzo shot over to her, and she pulled up a truckload of FBI material through the network humming away on Fornell's computer.

Alex and Pete chatted about amputations, and then about prothetic limbs, and then about the fact that Alex was not wearing his prothetic limb. Finally they discussed gut wounds like McGee's, a subject with which Alex was way too knowledgeable and enthusiastic for comfort.

Dinozzo and Sarah cross referenced and came up with a list of eight common names and addresses. She hesitated again as she wrote them out, along with brief notes on the relationships. "This is a lot."

"We'll narrow it down." Alex sounded confident as he slipped his hand along the polished surface of the table, toward the list.

Gibbs silently held out his hand and Sarah pulled the paper out from under Alex's fingers and passed it to him instead. He recognized five of the names as players in the area and wrote down the three most prominent, finally offering the stripped down list to Alex.

Alex took the paper, looked it over, and frowned. "Where's the families?"

Gibbs shook his head.

"Aw c'mon, this Falto guy's 50 something. He's probably got kids in the business and a whole pile of grandkids coming up too."

That was true. He did.

Gibbs reached over to the lid of Sarah's laptop and gently pushed it shut.

Alex stiffened, subtly. Like he might be offended, maybe confused. Or just impatient. "He wouldn't actually use the kids," he said casually. "The grandkids. It's just faster when he knows everything there is to know."

Gibbs nodded. He knew how that was faster. He knew it from both ends.

Alex cocked his head, frowned a little. Gibbs couldn't tell if that was an affectation, or just part of the kid's expressive nature. He was naturally so expressive, it was almost -

And then he wondered. Was he a highly energetic, typical adolescent boy, terrible at subtle?

Or was he just a little energetic, not at all typical, and very, very subtle.

"He'll find out anyway," Alex noted. "He can get them to tell him anything."

"Maybe," Gibbs said. "But if he wants this he'll have to come in and ask me for it himself."

"But I already know what he would say."

"And what's that?"

"He would say, 'Just give me the kids who are Bean's age and under," Alex smiled. "And we'll hold those in reserve."

Gibbs studied his expression, and Alex let him. "Well, that's not how we work."

"No?"

"No. Under eighteen is untouchable," Gibbs said. "Over eighteen, you can yell."

Alex _hmmed_, like he was thinking hard. "Untouchable - you mean like you wear latex yourself, gloves like, and use some kind of blunt instrument when you fuck them?"

Rodge looked up from his laptop. Sat forward smoothly. "What was that?"

Gibbs shook his head. Subtle it was. And a lot of control. "That was atypical - "

"Well, let's hope Bean getting shot up is atypical too," Alex pointed out reasonably. "And poor McGee of course. Get me all the info on this guy and we can make sure that it is."

" - and it didn't go that far," Gibbs stressed, shooting a look at Rodge. "Anyway, those agents were punished for what they did. Because what they did was against the rules."

"And you're so attached to the rules."

"I am," Gibbs countered calmly. "I follow all of my rules, always."

Ziva smiled at that.

And Alex did too. "Okay then. So we're agreed it went pretty far," he said, "by anybody's rules. And I would have to agree on that one guy getting what was coming to him. Ole Diablo did dish out some good punishment. What else can we agree on? How about you just give me all the ones over eighteen? That doesn't even break any of your rules, and for us, it would make things easier."

Gibbs closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. He felt an ominous surge in his gut, remembering the bodies of the FBI Agents . . . the remains, more like, that they'd recovered in O'Donnell's shack.

He shook his head. This day was just never going to end.

"I'm not negotiating with you," Gibbs said. "I'm not sure I would survive many more rounds. You've got everything you're going to get from us on Falto." He pushed the memory away with long practiced ease, and looked the boy in front of him over with interest. Before, he would have pegged him as too young. Too easy going to have earned his way in Gray's crew all on his own, even with the arm. He'd have guessed some older kid paved the way for him.

But now - "You're not anybody's kid brother, are you."

"Huh?" Genuine confusion that time.

Gibbs shook his head. "Nothing." He pushed the paper with the three names back over to Alex. "Here you go. You need a ride?"

Alex smiled, stood. "He said you'd ask me that. He said to tell you no, for both of us. And he said to say . . . " He frowned, remembering the exact words. "He said he's having a bad day. But it doesn't really matter, because everyone is."

Alex looked quizzically at him, wondering if that was right.

Gibbs nodded. "Tell him thanks for telling me, okay? We'll deal with it when he comes in. And tell him what I said about under 18 untouchable, over 18 yelling. Alright?"

A little laugh. "Yeah okay."

Gibbs gave him a tiny grin back, and watched him walk out the door. Listened to him walk down the hallway.

Then he stood.

"You," he nodded at Dinozzo. "With me." He stalked out of the conference room and stopped at a random door a few rooms down. He pushed it open, checked it was empty, gestured Tony in and let it swing shut behind him.

"What the hell was that, Dinozzo?"

Tony lookee puzzled. "Was what? Alex?"

"No, not Alex," he spat, and pointed through the wall, out in the direction of the corridor. "Alex made perfect sense to me. I'm talking about that. McGee."

"McGee's dad?" Tony held on to oblivious. "Well his sister's in Cancun, on spring break apparently. Nice right? But ironic, Mexico and all. His grandmother's out of the country, Europe somewhere, Germany or Italy, someplace with castles I think. And his mother's in Iowa. Or maybe it was Idaho. One of those with the corn, or maybe it was potatoes? Visiting relatives." Tony frowned ever so slightly, the look the palest shadow of the black storm crossing Gibbs' face. "Don't know how his dad came to find out where he was. Is, I mean. Come to think of it."

"You don't know how the admiral found out? He's an admiral, Dinozzo. He's _Admiral_ McGee."

"Well, yeah, but - "

"He's Admiral _McGee_."

Dinozzo paused. "Is that like a fancier - "

Gibbs rubbed a hand through his hair.

Tony tried again, gesturing toward the door. "So he has - "

"Yeah, Dinozzo! He can find out whatever he wants."

"Hm. Well," Tony said pleasantly. "That would explain it."

"Not that his rank has anything to do with it." Gibbs had not calmed. But he'd contained his fury. He leaned against a stripped hospital bed, arms across his chest, and waited.

Tony met his stare. And then he looked out the window.

He did not think about McGee falling, or McGee's blood, or McGee getting quiet in the car. He didn't think about torture or nannies or kids or drive-bys or drugs or drug lords. He thought about fantasy football.

"How long has that been going on?"

Tony cocked an eyebrow. "McGee not being best pals with his dad? Don't know about you but I get the impression it was in the cub scout era, really, when things started going downhill."

"That wasn't 'we're not best pals.'"

Tony scratched at his stubble. He needed to run down to the gift shop and pick up a shaving kit. They probably had nicer ones here than he had at home.

"Since Kate," he said. "They haven't spoken since Kate."

Gibbs opened his mouth, eventually, and took a silent breath. But he was quiet for so long, too long, and that's how Tony knew he was shocked.

"Since Kate died," Gibbs said steadily. "But it's about my record. Because she died on my watch?"

That was it. McGee's father would have Gibbs' military service record, and his family history, the whole thing, and his black ops too.

When Ari went down they said it was too personal. Too many on his team exposed. Gibbs had deliberately drawn his fire. Anyone who managed to climb the ranks to admiral wouldn't like Gibbs' unorthodox handling of that whole - and then Ziva, that had drawn suspicion from every brass button under the sun, except of course for Jenny.

That one and Kate still stung, always would, and he knew why. It was his responsibility for them. They were his Probies. And now they were dead.

"He doesn't want his only son on my team."

"Boss - Gibbs," Tony shook his head. "Look, I think you were right with the none of our business thing - "

"Tony," Gibbs stopped him. "You heard the doctors. McGee is going to need help for a long time. He's going to need his family around him."

"He'll have his family," Tony said.

"He needs his dad."

"No," Tony said quietly. "He doesn't."

As far as Tony was concerned, Hook got that one right.

Gibbs was still looking at him, but his eyes were inward now, not seeing, and Tony could tell he was rearranging the last six years in his head. Seeing it all unfold again, seeing the Probie grow up, basically, in a different way.

Gibbs liked to have everything figured out. Sometimes, funnily, that meant he missed one or two of the more basic things.

Sometimes, actually, it wasn't really funny.

"We can move him to Bethesda when he's more stable," Gibbs said finally. "Kort can fix the paper trail, with enough motivation." He pushed off from the bed and paced in a slow, tiny circle, and Tony watched him, feeling weary. Watched him figuring it all out again. "He'll probably be more comfortable there anyway. Abby - " Gibbs paused.

Tony cocked the other eyebrow.

"Is it just me," Gibbs asked slowly. "Or is it the team?"

"Boss," Tony sighed. "Tim's a big boy. Really, as Abby has noted, he has a backbone now and everything. He can figure this out on his - "

"Yeah, Dinozzo, I know. But if he can salvage something with his father he should. Now is it just me, or is it the team?"

Tony laughed. What a question. "Gibbs, it's the same thing. It was his father who made him choose. His job or his dad. The team or his dad. You or his dad. However you want to look at it."

Well, it was obvious how he wanted to look at it - Gibbs always had to look at it like -

"Tim chose the job," Tony said. "All on his own. And his dad can't deal with that." Because he was a fucktard, or a fuckwit, or something like that. Anyway - "Not our problem." Certainly not Tim's problem. He had the team, had Abby, him and Ziva, Ducky and Gibbs. Whatever name Gibbs wanted to give it, that wasn't really important.

Tony pushed off from the wall he was leaning against, heading for the door. "Pretty much the same choice we'd all make." Tony was fine, but his voice was a little thin just then. Probably because he hadn't slept in . . . so long. "Really, for anyone who's reached the required age to sign for a credit card, dads are a luxury item. Nice, but not necessary. A job, on the other hand - adventure, excitement, and insurance to cover getting shot, to boot. Even Daddy Dinozzo would have trouble fixing that bill, let's be . . ." Dinozzo's voice cut off suddenly, silenced by the heavy door.

Gibbs turned away, to look out the window.

He had to go back. Gray was out there, doing he didn't even want to think about what. And all the kids, and the gangs -

Family first, he'd said that before, so many times. He'd said it to Tim especially, and Tim had agreed, easy, open. Family first.

The job over his father - that's what Dinozzo said. And Dinozzo had seen this, obviously. Dinozzo had been willing to see it, where Gibbs hadn't. Tim's job over his father.

But he knew that wasn't true. He knew Tim. He knew Tony - and the things Tony wouldn't say.

It wasn't the job. It was Gibbs. Tim chose Gibbs.

* * *

><p><em>an: It's snowing here in Gray Scale Land. Hope everyone out there is enjoying the start of festivus season!_


	67. Rough, or, All In the Game

**Chapter 67**

**Rough, or, All in the Game**

When things get rough those that can hole up, hunker down, hide away. When the shooting got real bad between 13 and the 18th Streeters, Preacher didn't step foot out the little apartment over his club for eight days.

Eight days isn't all that long to some people. Jamie knew he could spend a month on a couch easy, and no complaints. Preacher wasn't like that. You don't get to be a boss like him in a place like south Baltimore just sitting on the couch.

"Yo boss, how's it going."

Jamie grinned at the corner hoods, top lip stretching strange over the gap in his front teeth. There hadn't been any teeth there for years and years, but it still felt strange. "Pretty good, pretty good now, yourself?" He moved along like he always did, too fast to be irritating, too broken to be threatening.

He slid down the outside of the sidewalks, down Franklin Avenue and the old chop-shop electronics store, down Oakwood, past the fresh brick and shiny dark windows of the new community college building, sticking out like a sleek sore thumb. Jamie nodded to a man in a leather jacket standing at the side door to Preacher's building, shifting from foot to foot until he got the nod to go up.

When he finally got up there, Preacher was out in the front room, pacing circle-shaped holes in the floor. Pale flat circles right there in the carpet. Preacher was a big man - not fat, but tall and solid - and he was handsome. Had the iron features of an action hero in a movie.

When he saw Jamie come in Preacher settled slow into a chair and waved a hand, invitation, permission.

Jamie perched on the chair across and smiled as he talked, nervous and hollow, thin over the gap in his teeth.

Everybody knew Preacher's outfit was losing money, big money every minute of the day. Too much fighting on the corners meant hardly anyone coming out for trade. That meant no money for the restless men like Preacher, no supply for the couch boys like Jamie.

And that right there is how Jamie ended up sitting across from Preacher that one sunny afternoon, Jamie just a bum and Preacher a boss so high hardly anybody ever even seen him. Jamie was in Preacher's castle because the whole system was busted with all the fighting and nobody, not any kind of body, was happy.

Jamie stopped talking and Preacher moved sort of sudden in his chair, put one of his knees up over the other, flat movie-eyes bored.

But then he said something that made Jamie figure he was really listening.

"So, what're you getting out of this, boss?" That's what he said.

They called Jamie boss cause he always called them boss. Didn't make any kind of sense but that's the way it was.

The boy who gave Jamie the front money said he should just tell it like it was, tell it straight up, so he did.

"Well they give me a hit free right off for coming here. And a hundred up front too." He'd stashed it though, cause people hear you got two cents to your name and people get greedy. "And I get another hundred even, no matter how it come out."

Preacher made a whistle with his lips, like he was impressed. "Hundred even."

That's not much to a man like Preacher, Jamie knew, but he wasn't done.

"And if it works out then I get ten even, anyway I want it, plus a room to stay too, through the end of the month." It was only the fourth. Almost a whole month, plus a thousand dollars. Jamie breathed real careful, slow. Otherwise he'd of looked too excited.

Boss like Preacher might have a thousand in his pocket every day, a thousand in the couch cushions, Jamie didn't know. But that's not small change for a scrounger out in the game, and Jamie was looking at getting that just for the message.

Imagine what their boys get that do real things. And they had boys doing real things, no mistake. They gave Jamie a trash bag to bring along to the meeting with Preacher. They told him what was in it first, straight up, case he didn't want to carry it even for that kind of money. Jamie didn't mind carrying it, just as long as he didn't have to look.

Eighteen hands, that's what was in there. People's _hands._ All lefties. Eighteen dead dealers, eighteen gang boys.

Eighteen dead open vacancies, opportunities. That's what that bag was for an enterprising dealer. And that's what Preacher was thinking, course, with those hungry circling eyes he got.

"Like I said, they don't want to mix it up with you, Preach." Jamie could hear his voice all high and nervous, but that was okay, that was good, cause he wasn't a threat. "They said they just want the information, if you have it, cause it's been messy down there where they operate, in Mexico, and they want to smooth things along, get em back to the way they was running before boss, more efficient, you know?"

That was what everybody wanted, wasn't it? Cause those last few weeks it was like the plagues of Egypt out there, no joke, like a famine, with all the main men holed up tight, out of sight, and no supply to the little streets at all.

"And I'm just supposed to smile and go along nice when I don't even know who I'm dealing with? That it?"

Now, Jamie'd known Preacher since he was a kid on the corner, and he knew Jamie too, cause everybody did. But that wasn't what Preacher meant—Jamie might be the man standing across from him, but on that day it wasn't just a lowdown addict Preach was dealing with.

Jamie smiled again. He felt sweaty and cold, felt the hit wearing off. "Well now, they said it's just an offer, you can take it or leave it, can't you? They ain't come after your people yet and they won't either. But they got the money and the soldiers and they said – well the one I talked to, he said they going to keep going till they have answers, and that means – " Jamie waved a hand at the window pulled open to the chilly spring air, open to the street and the quiet. Open to the empty, to the wind, and all the silence that only whispered and whispered and teased that one thing. No supply, no people. No people, no dealing. No dealing, no money. No money. No money.

Preacher stood up and walked out the kitchen, back to the living room where a woman and his boys were hanging, watching TV, and they got to talking.

Jamie watched a plane fly by out the window.

There was a big tree out there, must have been real nice in the summertime, with the leaves blowing.

Jamie'd never been on a plane. Wasn't sure he'd really ever want to – never felt the need to go that far. But he wondered about them, when he'd look up and notice. Wondered if those people ever looked out the window and wondered about people like him, down on the ground.

When he turned from the window Preacher was sitting at the table again, watching him.

"How you know this crew, boss?"

"Don't," Jamie said. "They know me."

"Mexicans?"

"Only ever met two little ones." He held up a hand to show how short exactly. "Didn't look Mexican."

"My people don't mess around that cartel shit," Preacher said. "But I can find what they want to know. Going to cost."

Jamie didn't have any kind of instructions regarding negotiations. "I don't – "

"They'll come find you. You're going to tell them I have the name. You tell them I want 250."

Two fifty. No joke. Jamie sat there feeling like he never even heard a number up that high. Like maybe he didn't even know how to count that far. And maybe like he didn't know what kind of game this was, precisely.

"Two – ?"

"Name a Mexican boss ain't no small thing." Preacher nodded to the door. "Get on now."

Jamie was back the next day. He had two hundred dollars tucked away and a fresh supply waiting, more than he ever had in his stash before. And there was a thousand more coming if it all went good. That was the gravy train alright, best job he ever had. Excepting that bag with the hands.

"Well, they said they get you 250 if you want it, Preach. But they also say they rather give you a name worth more."

Preacher laughed, but it was mean. "You tell me what kind a name is worth more than a quarter mil, boss."

That part made Jamie nervous. He didn't generally get into serious conversations with people like Preacher. He pulled out the envelope the kid gave him and put it there on the table in front of Preacher. "Don't know." But he knew the kind. "Guessing it's a snitch."

Preacher looked at the envelope like maybe he could see through the paper. "My crew?"

That Jamie wasn't real clear about. "Don't know. But they knew for a fact you done deals with him. Oh yeah, and they said too, you clear him out, you have his route. They don't do routes. That's what they say."

Preacher took the envelope.

He said the boss they were looking for down in Mexico – well, the name didn't matter. Everybody called him L5.

**x**

L5's younger brother had gone into hiding in his girlfriend's house in Houston, a house he bought and furnished with cash. When he came around he was handcuffed to his own dining room chair.

They'd been masked when they came in, but the first thing he saw waking up was Gray's face. You could tell he knew what that meant.

He was calm, anyway. "Who the fuck are you?"

Gray didn't answer. That answer didn't matter.

L5's brother was tall. Gray sat on the corner of the table, so he was higher up. It was stupid, the little things that made a difference. Being taller was an advantage. But it didn't matter how you got there – just sitting a little higher worked fine.

The brother pulled at the cords binding him to the chair. "What do you want?"

"For this to be as painless as possible," Gray said. Thing about talking to people who are already dead. You can just be honest.

"Get the fuck out of my house," the guy said, low. "Painless."

"You run a crew for 13 out of Mexico. I need your boss. Need to know who's behind this." Gray held up the paper they found back in DC. The one with his own face on it, and Truck's and Cop's. The brother's eyes flicked between the paper and Gray's face, putting it together.

He grunted and jerked at the ties on his arms again. Always seemed like it was hard for the strong ones to stop doing that.

"I'm not gonna tell you anything. Get the fuck out of here, you little fuck!" He heaved against the chair, making it creak.

Gray gave him a minute to think on it, to tire, and then he pulled out the knife he kept in the side pocket of his pants. Wasn't really a weapon, too small and fine.

If you looked close you could see a faint engraving, a grinning snake, running down the handle and into the blade.

"Don't care how you go," Gray said. Honest. "But we might negotiate some things. Make it easy."

Thick veins popped in the guy's neck, in his forehead. He sucked in his breath and roared. "Get out of _my house_!"

"Take screaming," Gray said. "Probably scare the kids. We can avoid that. If you want."

"I'm gonna kill you."

Gray gave him another minute. And then – "We don't have a lot of time. And I don't really care if you frighten your kids or not."

The man breathed carefully, thinking. He'd climbed the ranks from as low as they go. With the right encouragement he would not be stupid.

"Where they at?"

"Upstairs."

"They ma?"

"Her too."

The brother breathed through his nose. Getting his head around asking. "Well what if I want to see them."

_Pathetic_, Dex whispered, too close. The man really in front of Gray seemed very far away. Only the blade in his hand felt right in that moment, reliable, cool and real. "If there's time," Gray said. "And you give me what I want."

The man jerked irritably and spit on Gray, spit all over his shirt. "Don't want to see em that much," he sneered. "You just get on with it, boy."

"There are other things you want," Gray said. He could hear it in his voice, how far away he was. He watched from way out as the sneer drained from the face, saw how L5's brother fell and opened to him, way down deep, how he opened to fear and despair.

The brother didn't say anything.

Gray lifted his empty hand, movement slow. That hand was not a threat. "This house. What's it, five bedroom? Six? Real nice. Took a look at your accounts, or your girlfriend's accounts I guess. She's not doing too bad. You love her huh, give her this life?"

The man breathed like a bull, but then he forced himself again to calm. L5's brother was strong where it counted, had a strong mind.

Gray smiled. He liked this man.

"My boys take care of my family, asshole," the man said. "And they going to take care of you."

"I haven't decided yet if I'm going to let your boys live." Gray took out a list and set it on the table. L5's Houston people, and all their addresses, and all their family, and all their addresses. All the intel a week of blood had bought them. "Is that something you want?"

L5's brother died quietly, in the end. Painless. And everybody got something they wanted.

**x**

The hospital was like a body, a giant with its own life, its own rhythm and soul. It wheezed in at 6am and again at 6pm, sucking in fresh staff, heaving them back out drained, the cycle of life to keep a building running. Its machinery was the brains, humming constant and quiet in the background, blinking and clicking, getting you high and bringing you down, waking you up and making you sleep. On occasion, making everybody panic.

The first time McGee opened his eyes there were strange faces and bright lights, loud voices and the tube cutting up his throat.

The second time it was dark. There was nobody there that he could see, nothing to listen to but the machines. He was too confused to be afraid, too exhausted to figure anything out.

He drifted and blinked and then Tony was there.

"McGoo," he said. "Finally. You're eighteen hours late for your shift, you know. Lazybones."

Tim had to think about that. Things were buzzing, something in the room or maybe something in his head, he wasn't sure. "Got shot," he croaked.

"Yep." Tony turned, reached behind him. "And what'd I tell you about that?"

"Uh . . ." He was so tired. But Tony was looking at him, waiting. "You said better you than me," Tim rasped.

"Exactly. C'mere."

Tim didn't know why Tony said that. He couldn't go anywhere. But Tony came to him, tipped a plastic cup over his mouth, and he was so parched the ice didn't even make it to the back of his throat before it soaked into his tongue.

"More," McGee said.

Tony gave him more and then he just sat there, looking at McGee, looking un-Tony. Tim was going to ask him what was wrong. But he blinked and Tony was gone. Abby was there instead.

She looked huge. All he could see were her eyes.

It confused him at first and then he realized she was lying next to him, her nose almost touching his.

"Okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, careful, tiny movement. "You?"

He fell asleep.

**x**

When he woke up again Gibbs was there.

McGee knew a long time had passed. Because the light was different, for one, and because everything hurt now. He tried to move, to get more comfortable. Cold knives stabbed up his spine.

He cried out, or tried to – that hurt too, and all that came out was a weak, cut-off squeak.

Gibbs put aside whatever papers he'd been looking at, got up and walked away.

A second later he came back, trailing a nurse. She put her hand on McGee's wrist and watched a monitor, movement efficient, focus on his vitals. Her speech was cheerful and rote. "Hello, Agent McGee. Welcome back. My name's Theresa, I'm your day shift nurse. How are you feeling?"

"Kay," McGee breathed.

"I bet." She fiddled with the morphine machine, finally put the lead with the button in his hand. "Doctor Zunner will be around a bit later to discuss your injuries and your recovery, okay? But in the meantime we're going to keep you comfortable. You got it, hon? Feel it under your thumb?"

McGee felt it, under his hand.

He took a moment, worked his throat, formed the word. Like he used to practice with the speech therapist all those hours, those years after school, making sure his voice would sound steady, would be strong.

"Yes," he said.

It came out shaky.

"Yes," he said again, a little better.

She adjusted the bed so he wasn't lying so flat and gave him a sip of water. McGee's eyes tracked Gibbs, moving back to his chair.

The nurse checked every one of the mess of wires and tubes and then she fluffed the pillow, somehow, without moving his neck. "Just click it when you feel uncomfortable, okay Tim? And I'm available whenever you need me. You press the blue button if you need anything at all." She moved his forefinger on the plastic box in his hand. He felt the give of the call button, "or you ask Agent Gibbs or Dinozzo here to come get me. Alright Tim?" She was kind of whispering, he realized. He wondered why.

"Yeah."

She grinned at him and walked out of sight, soft shoes too quiet to hear fading away.

He wasn't really sitting up. The bed was only adjusted a few inches. The new position still felt strange, though, like it was risky, and he closed his eyes against a wave of vertigo.

When it passed McGee decided to focus on breathing, trying to convince himself that the feeling wasn't pain. Was just . . . discomfort. The nurse was just there, wasn't she, had just given him something. But it got louder, started pressing, started to _tear_ –

He clicked the button and held his breath, and the scream dulled.

When he finally looked over at Gibbs again the boss took off his reading glasses and put aside the file he was looking at. McGee wondered what that file was, wondered what he was doing there. Here. But when he opened his mouth to ask that wasn't what came out.

"Sorry, boss."

There was the sound of someone moving, over on the other side of him, but McGee concentrated on Gibbs. Gibbs was looking at him, but he didn't say anything.

McGee guessed that probably wasn't too clear. "You told us there could be . . . more. Behind us." He rested for a second, wondered if they'd taken out a lung. He was winded just talking. "Should of . . . " McGee trailed off. What should he have done?

He was so dizzy, and hot, like the drugs were a cocoon wrapped too tight. He closed his eyes for a second to keep from feeling sick. But he had to explain, try to explain -

"I had an aquarium." McGee blinked, surprised. The words just came out, without any kind of - "When I was a kid. We'd see . . . a frog. Read about it and . . . make a hab . . . habitat. We - "

Wait. He shifted, tried to look around, and squeaked,_ squeaked_ with the flare of pain in his belly, the sick burst of it spreading through his body.

He closed his eyes again, breathed through it. Breathed through the heat flashing up into his face and the dizziness that followed. He could feel Gibbs' eyes on him and he felt weak, naked.

God, he probably _was_ naked. He'd had nightmares about embarrassment less mortifying than this. And Gibbs was still looking at him.

"Um." He'd ask from now on, obviously, instead of trying to look around. "My sister here?"

"On her way back from Cancun, McGee." That was Tony, on the other side of him. Talking low, almost whispering. "There's a blizzard in the midwest though, lot of delays."

Spring break. He'd been so busy, he hadn't talked to her.

"Sarah liked making . . . the nest most. We'd catch and . . . "

There was a flash of something, a long pull inside him, even though he hadn't moved. McGee waited, frozen and helpless, for something terrible to happen.

A minute passed and nothing did.

He could hear all the monitors around him, reassuringly steady. He gathered up his will and moved on. Gibbs was still sitting there, looking patient, through some miracle. "Release. Frogs and snakes . . . tadpoles." He remembered the creek and the beach. "Newts, minnows."

He breathed, looking at Gibbs, wondering if he'd understand. Wondering if Tim could make him understand.

Gibbs just looked back at him, still waiting. McGee wasn't sure Gibbs had ever listened to him so long, not without hurrying him up, not if it wasn't the job.

This wasn't the job. But this was -

"One time Sarah got out . . . a book on aquatic . . . life. Had pictures of . . . plants. Fresh . . . and coral." McGee caught his breath, closed his eyes again. Had to get his voice under - "But we couldn't. Aquatic plants are complicated. Delicate." He breathed. Waited. That was better, if he just went very slow. "You have to think. Different things. Light schedule. Color temp." He breathed, waited. "CO2. Fermentation . . . "

It was weird. McGee usually knew to stop when Gibbs cut him off. But Gibbs wasn't cutting him off. Wasn't reading, or working, or doing anything else.

McGee cut himself off, anyway.

"They died. The plants." Breath, wait. "We didn't have the . . . the touch." That's what his mother said at the time. The McGees just didn't have that green thumb. But McGee knew now that what they really didn't have was the patience. They were curious, they were geeks. But they hadn't cared enough, didn't want to put the work in. Didn't want to have to hope they'd get it right this time, and then start over, from scratch, when they made some fatal mistake. It took a lot of care, to grow something so utterly different from yourself, from your world. Not like catch and release.

McGee remembered his battered old ten gallon. And the bright one, sparkling clean, at the house.

When he came back to the room Gibbs was still looking at him. Waiting.

"There was - at the house." McGee stopped. But he'd made the mistake. He could at least give Gibbs the reason. What there was of a reason. "They had one. In a bedroom. A freshwater."

He went back to it, how he'd moved by in an instant, how it had drawn his eye. Looking for danger, seeing the warm green glow of life.

"_Nesaea_ red has red leaves. Easy to spot. And Tonina. Green stems. Pretty." He'd been looking for movement, for a weapon. Saw the motion of the stems in the soft current. The movement of the water had to be gentle, they'd learned that early. The roots were so fragile.

"And I . . ." There'd been a plush toy propped next to the tank, he remembered. A bright blue fish with a goofy smile. "I got mad."

"McGee." Tony's voice was a harsh whisper, now. He probably looked angry. McGee was still looking at Gibbs though, and Gibbs didn't look anything. "Kort was – "

"Wasn't his fault." McGee cut Tony off. "We could have waited. I could have."

"But you got mad." Tony again. Resigned. "Because of the fish plants."

McGee closed his eyes. The empty rooms, the sunlight and the colors, warm and bright. "Sorry."

There was quiet for a moment, letting that settle.

Then they were waiting for Gibbs to say he should never apologize.

But that's not what he said.

"Your father was here, McGee. Day before yesterday." Gibbs waited. McGee didn't know for what. A long moment and Gibbs moved on. "Your mother's on the west coast, waiting for a flight out of Seattle. There anyone else you want us to call?"

McGee thought about that. "What's - what happened? In DC?"

Gibbs didn't say anything. He just stared at McGee like that was the wrong question.

But hadn't there been - ? Over the com, Gibbs said there was –

"Turns out there's a gang hit on some of the kids," Tony said. "Truck and a couple others were followed in DC while we were trailing Barbi to the house. Truck's group was attacked before Gibbs got on scene. One dead."

McGee tried to look at Tony and the agony crashed through him like an ocean wave, sending him spinning, graying his vision.

He panted, stunned, every breath an explosion.

Something touched his hand, Tony pressing on his thumb, clicking the button. The room slowed.

Tim wanted to ask, stupidly, if the one who had the aquarium was okay. In the bedroom on the left, right after the stairs. Ocean signal flags pinned to the walls, messy bed covers and an immaculate tank. But Gibbs and Tony wouldn't know.

"Where are they?" McGee remembered the file Gibbs had been reading. Why was Gibbs just sitting here now? And Tony too – they should be –

"The rest of them are alright, McGee. Safe houses are still good, far as we know." Tony again.

Gibbs was silent, still looking at him, and McGee wondered just how pissed the boss was. Wondered if he was going to be in official trouble, too, whether the whole team would be, because how could they keep this quiet? Maybe they'd be suspended? Of course McGee'd be on medical leave –

And then he wondered, it occurred to him to wonder, how bad he was hurt.

"Gray's using his old contacts," Tony explained, "trying to flush out whoever's behind the hit. They've been checking in, once in awhile. No luck yet though."

McGee's eyes strayed to the ceiling.

He wondered where Abby was. What his father had said. If he would come back.

He thought about wiggling a toe. Wondered if he would even be able to tell whether it moved or not.

"You're going to be okay, Tim," Gibbs said. He sounded the same as always. But his eyes were knowing.

McGee let his breath out carefully, grateful when he didn't squeak.

Gibbs continued, off-hand. He was picking up the file again, like the conversation was over anyway. "Do what the doctors tell you and you'll be back on your feet soon enough."

Tim. He'd called him Tim.

Maybe Gibbs couldn't protect him, even if he wanted to – and up on his feet didn't mean cleared for field duty. Or squared with Gibbs. He hadn't said anything about – "Uh. Back on your team? Boss? Or – "

The paper in Gibbs' hand rattled. The irritated look he gave McGee over his reading glasses was impatient. Familiar. "What do you do when there's an objective in front of you and bad guys all around, McGee?"

Crap. Tim reminded himself for the thousandth time that asking Gibbs questions was risky. Must have been the morphine.

"Um. Advance. Cautiously?"

Gibbs turned a page, paper snapping. "Cautiously? Well I don't know, McGee. Do you care if your objective is still alive when you get there?"

Tony snickered.

"Feel free to chime in any time, Dinozzo."

"You wait for backup." Tony's words were sharp, suddenly serious.

"We are the backup, Dinozzo." Gibbs said quietly. Eyes still on the file in his hands. "And there is no backup but us."

McGee shivered. It was warm in the room. He felt safe with Gibbs. But –

Gibbs let the file rest in his lap. He took his glasses off again, rubbed his eyes. "Your head is fine, McGee. And we're going to need you to use it. So think. What was the strategy in Colombia."

Going to need him. On the team. McGee felt a rush of relief, sweeter than morphine.

In Colombia. With bad guys all around, just like at the house. He was fuzzy, tired, but Gibbs was looking at him. The objective – the objective was Gibbs, in Colombia. At the house, the object –

"The strategy in Colombia was to get in and get out as quickly and quietly as possible." Ziva's voice. From over by the door. "If you know there may be unfriendly forces behind you but you must move forward, advancing slowly may not be possible."

McGee knew she was right. But it didn't sit right because there was always something. There must have been something – "You made it, in Colombia. And I – "

"We nearly got our asses handed to us in Colombia, McGee," Tony said abruptly. "You know that. We got lucky."

Oh. The patrol. They'd never really – Tony and Ziva never mentioned that. Gibbs either, but that was hardly a surprise.

"So then what's the answer," McGee asked, tired of guessing. His head was cloudy.

"You're thinking about it like an agent on the ground," Gibbs said, hard. Demanding. "You're not on the ground now. And you'll be a director one day, McGee. Think strategy. Think cost versus reward. You have a small force, cut-off, facing overwhelming odds. Moving toward an objective that is not negotiable. What do you expect?"

"Casualties?" McGee said automatically. "Failure rate high." His eyes slipped closed. He remembered the sunlight, the bright colors. The healthy green leaves, moving gently in clear water.

Clean water. But that meant someone –

He forced his eyes open. "That lady okay?"

Gibbs picked up the file again.

"The answer," he said, "is knowing the objective is worth the price you'll pay. And hoping like hell you get lucky. She's fine, McGee. You two get out. He needs to rest."

He heard angry movement from Tony's side of the room, but McGee was relieved. Exhausted. His eyes pulled closed.

* * *

><p><em>an:_

__Jamie's "little streets" reference is taken from Yeats' "No Second Troy":__

Why should I blame her that she filled my days  
>With misery, or that she would of late<br>Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,  
>Or hurled the little streets upon the great,<br>Had they but courage equal to desire?  
>What could have made her peaceful with a mind<br>That nobleness made simple as a fire,  
>With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind<br>That is not natural in an age like this,  
>Being high and solitary and most stern?<br>Why, what could she have done being what she is?  
>Was there another Troy for her to burn?<p>

__The chapter title and some of the feel of the first part were stolen from 'The Wire.'__

_Incidentally, names like Preacher, AK, Barbie and L5 are real, taken from the news. The fact that there are ex-IRA (Irish Republican Army) mixed up with the Colombian rebels and American cartels is real too, oddly enough. Probably not the Emerald Isle's proudest export, but since it is the Feast of St. P today - Sláinte!_


	68. A Little Business

**Chapter 68: A Little Business**

"Then again, there's been a general uptick in gun violence from Forth Worth to New York, so it's hard to be sure."

"Yeah, not surprising."

But then Gibbs faltered. Surprised.

He'd wandered down to the ground floor, trying to find an open coffee cart or maybe a break room with a pot on. Instead he'd found Dinozzo, sitting alone in a quiet, high-ceilinged room.

Dinozzo hadn't seen him.

"And I got a tip from a police captain over in the fourth. It looks like your informant is dead."

Gibbs pulled up short. "Who?"

It took Vance a moment to respond. He muttered something about not being a secretary, about the idiocy of keeping notes on what amounted to conspiracy. "Here, found it. Name's Augustus Greene. Went by AK?"

"How?" Gibbs demanded.

"Found him in the street. Looks like it could be a drive-by, cops are thinking rival gang. Maybe even one of his own. They're not sure who or why, much less how. You know better than anyone AK was careful as they come."

Gibbs blew out a breath. Rival gang his ass.

"Got to tell you, Gibbs. I knew it was going to get ugly. Just didn't expect it on this scale."

Gibbs didn't respond. Truth was, he hadn't seen this coming either.

"How's McGee?"

"Doing okay."

"And your team?"

"Team's fine. Got to go, Leon."

He shut the phone and came to a stop next to his second. Tony looked up, questioning, and Gibbs shook his head. No news from the kids.

Gibbs glanced around. Last he'd checked, Tony was stretched out on one of the couches up on the ninth floor, taking a nap. It'd been quiet for almost two days, no word, no new request for intel from the kids, not since the query about L5. The team had shifted its sights once again to the cartel, and Colombia, probing Calera contacts with Mexico since Paloma Reynosa was taken down and that market opened up. Dinozzo had been combing through recent Mexican arrest records.

But the new team - Sarah, Rodge and Pete, Ziva and Kort - weren't anywhere in sight.

"Got a meeting down here I don't know about?"

Tony rubbed his hair, messing it up. He was put together otherwise. Clean, clean shaven. Perfect pressed suit. Gibbs hadn't known you could get dry cleaning delivered to a hospital, but trust Dinozzo to find a way.

"Hey," Gibbs prompted, sharp. But he sat down alongside him. They were all tired as hell.

"When I was a cop and things would heat up," Tony said blearily, "we'd do a run through of all the emergency rooms. Get a chance to interview the families. Any victims still conscious. Friends, if they showed up. Drive-bys, if they survived. Good witnesses, you know, if they live. Can't exactly deny they were there."

Gibbs glanced overhead, at the silvery lettering arranged on the arch at the far end of the hall. Emergency Room.

"Thought I'd check up on the action, see who was taking the worse of it, what the word is. I forgot we're - " Tony looked at the table next to him. There was an elaborate, gleaming glass sculpture sitting on it. " - here." He moved a finger, tiny tired movement, to take in the sweep of the room. The tasteful, quiet, comfortably wealthy feel of it. "They've only had two patients come through here in the last half hour, Gibbs. Bicycle accident and an allergy attack." He shook his head, like a world of bicycles and allergies was unfathomable. "I bet they've run out of beds at County. It's probably standing room only."

Gibbs was quiet. But Tony was used to that - a couple of years in and he never went into a conversation expecting Gibbs to respond, much less needing it. "Thought I knew every inch of this town. But I never stepped foot in this place till Gray."

"Yeah, me neither."

"No." Tony wasn't looking at him, had his gaze fixed out the bank of windows. But he sounded confident. "You've been here before. I think - " a pause, considering, " - I think maybe you live here."

Gibbs didn't reply.

But Tony didn't care. "I know Kort pissed me off deliberately," he said out of the blue. He clasped his hands, held them tight. "After Jeanne. It was all some - stupid calculation. CIA asset management. I'm not an idiot. That's not why I'm pissed at him. You want to know why?"

Gibbs set his jaw.

"It's all the snide little comments. The hints, like he thinks he's got something on us. Like he thinks we're like_ him_. Just - playing in the dark. All these years, I was pissed because I was insulted. Because he thought we were dirty." Another pause. "Then again, maybe I am an idiot. You're not going to deny it?"

"Deny what?"

Tony cut him a look. A rare, full on angry stare.

"What do you want me to say? I do what's necessary to get the job done. Always have. That come as a surprise to you, Dinozzo?"

Tony silently fisted one hand into the other. "No," he sighed, resigned. He didn't want to fight. More than that, he knew they couldn't afford it. "But it used to be the job was NCIS, Gibbs. We're supposed to be cops. Now we're - I don't know what we are. But it looks to me like we're on Kort's side," he said, bitter.

"Is that what you were doing down in Colombia, taking out a warehouse full of people? Being a cop? Fighting the good fight?" Gibbs pressed on ruthlessly. "Don't play innocent with me, Dinozzo. We are way beyond that. You break the rules, you get into a dirty fight, you've got to live with the consequences."

"The consequences? McGee with a hole through his gut and an open line of morphine, babbling about _aquariums_ - and you're talking to him about cost and reward! He's not a _price_ I'm willing to pay for _this_," Tony hissed.

No need to ask what _this_ was. Tony had more experience working narcotics than any of them.

But that didn't necessarily mean he was right on this point. "You heard him," Gibbs said. "McGee thinks it's worth it. He doesn't have any regrets."

"Even when he's not delirious McGee's a boy scout. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on! He ran through that house after Kort because you've trained him to follow you into anything. He thinks it's worth it because you've taught him to follow your lead and he damn well trusts you to do the right thing. And don't give me your big bad Marine recon strategy shit," Tony warned. He was starting to seethe. "We should have waited for Darren's team to back us up. That's called cop survival 101, Gibbs. Back up."

Gibbs wasn't real used to getting a lecture from anyone. Even his second. Thing was, Dinozzo volunteered for this and he could walk away whenever he chose. Maybe that would even be the right thing. But then, Gibbs had told all of them that at the outset. They just hadn't believed him, hadn't really considered it, because they'd never followed him into anything this messed up before.

Gibbs reminded himself of his conversations with Gray. Infuriating, heartbreaking, ridiculous, absurd. But calm, no matter what. Calm. Because that was what Gray needed.

"I brought in Darren's team to back up the kids, not for us. And the kids needed them, Dinozzo. _We lost a boy._" Okay. Calm. "As for McGee, he's his own man. He makes his own choices." Not that Gibbs always understood them. Or even recognized they were happening, for that matter. He'd never thought of McGee as . . . well, as stoic, before. But now it was clear that's what he'd been, in some ways at least, all along. "He's got a right to make his own decisions and I'll be damned if I'm going to pity him for having the guts to see them through."

Tony was silent, staring at the empty chair across from him. Seemed like Gibbs was in one of his reasonable moods. It kind of took the wind out of his own temper.

Much as McGee had shaken Tony up, shaken them all, it looked like he really would be okay. And Gibbs was right, much as it burned. McGee was undaunted. He'd been his old upstanding, geeked out, boy scout self.

But Gray was out there. And how much of that was choice?

Tony'd never been more uncertain. He hadn't realized before just how _far_ out there the kid really was. Just how unlikely that he'd ever really come back in. "It's the kids paying."

He said it like Gibbs had forced it out of him.

"Yeah. Well, it'd be easier if we got to name the price. But that's not how it goes."

"This is why you were pissed in Colombia, huh? We wouldn't let you pay the price you wanted."

Gibbs didn't respond. Tony tried to think about it like a calculation, something he'd promised himself in his early cop days he would never ever do, because it didn't matter, the job had to be done and it would take what it took, no matter what. Thinking about it almost made it worse. But right now they were outside the job and he had to wonder. Was getting Gibbs out of Colombia worth Ziva against that truck? Worth Tim in that house, all those heads in Ducky's morgue? Was a shuffle in cartel leadership worth Tim wounded and that little boy dead? Was the cartel worth the team? Worth the kids?

Was Gray worth anything at all?

It wasn't really a calculation though, could never be an equation balanced on both sides. This fight was just like all the other ones he'd waged as a cop in vice, a black pit that threatened to swallow them whole, dragging them down, taking them inch by inch. It was a monster intent on bleeding them dry and it would never give back what it had already taken.

"Look, I'm sorry about that boy, Boss. I really am. But I'm a cop."

Gibbs took a breath to steady himself. "Yeah. I understand."

"I love my team," Tony said. Added quietly, "It's my team too."

Gibbs nodded.

"We're good at what we do. And what we do is good. That's what we are. Who we are. Or it was."

Tony glanced sidelong at Gibbs. But Gibbs didn't say anything. Didn't look at him.

"This - I don't know what this is. I'm not blaming you or anyone else. I played my part. Looking back I'm not sure how we could have steered clear. But what we're doing - this isn't us." Tony opened his hands, smoothed his palms over his knees. "You heard about L5's brother, in Texas? His people?"

Gibbs nodded.

"And that Swiss guy, in Silver Spring. And those field trips back in Colombia. I don't like what I'm starting to think, Gibbs."

Gibbs didn't like where his mind was taking him either. But they'd both worked narcotics for too many years and the evidence was staring them in the face.

"I need you to hold on, Dinozzo."

Tony closed his eyes. "How long?"

"Until we're through this."

Gibbs' phone rang. Tony cut through the fog of fatigue instantly, waiting for news.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Hey, you hear about AK?" It was Fornell.

"Yeah. You got anything on that?"

"No. Was hoping you would have something for me. Metro PD's got it now but rumor is he'd been branching out, going interstate, maybe international, so they're thinking about kicking it over to us."

"So?"

"So what've you got?"

"AK look like Navy to you? NCIS doesn't mess around with civilian traffickers, Tobias. We've got enough problems of our own."

Tony put his head in his hands. He hadn't heard about AK, then.

"Uh huh. You want to catch a drink sometime? You know you owe me many, many beers."

"You know where to find me."

Fornell cleared his throat, chagrined. "How's McGee doing?"

"Alright. Awake now."

"Good. How's the team holding up?"

"They're fine. Keep me posted."

Gibbs closed the phone. "Need you to reach out to the cops in the fourth. AK's been hit, killed. They're working it."

Tony huffed, a laugh sinking into despair. "Got to hand it to him. Kid's leaving no asset unturned. Hardly any alive." He rose to his feet. Said in a weary sing-song, "If we're setting him up in his very own Gray cartel, he's gonna be unstoppable."

Hearing it like that, his worst fear out loud, Gibbs couldn't respond if he'd wanted to. He sat there and watched Tony pull his cell from his pocket, watched him walk back toward the elevators with that slouched, lazy elegance, like he didn't have a care in the world.

**x**

When McGee opened his eyes the light was different again, the blinds pulled closed. He was laying flat. They'd adjusted the bed. He wondered what time it was. Then he wondered what day it was.

"Timothy!" It was Ducky, cheerful. Loud. Tim craned his neck to see him, just in time to catch two figures popping up from a long couch pushed against the wall behind the doctor.

It was Abby and his sister, sleep mussed, hair a mess. White hospital blankets falling off their shoulders. Sarah waved to him and smiled tentatively, anxious eyes darting over his face. He smiled and chanced moving just enough to wave back. To his surprise, it didn't actually hurt that much.

"How are you, my boy? Comfortable? Let's get you up a bit, shall we?" Ducky poked expertly at the bed's controls. "Allow me to introduce Dr. Zunner, he'll be overseeing your post-operative care. Abigail, since you volunteered to assist," he pulled around one of the chairs and patted the back, "you should join us. And Sarah of course. Everyone else will run along and get some tea."

Ducky looked beyond Tim, his face setting a bit. He moved his head, a slight shake, like _no_.

Gibbs stood up - Tim hadn't realized he was still there - and left the room. Tim moved his head, cautiously, to look toward that side. Ziva was standing against the wall.

She smiled at him. "Hello, McGee."

"Hi."

"How are you feeling?"

"Um. Better." He was, he realized. It was easier to move, his head was clearer. He tried to remember what he'd been saying before - had Ziva been there? Something about -

"I am glad to hear it. And I will leave you to it." She pushed off the wall, gesturing toward Ducky and the other doctor, both holding medical files and looking on expectantly.

"Zee?"

She stopped halfway to the door. "Yes?"

"What - ?"

He glanced toward Ducky, watching them still, and then at the door where Gibbs had disappeared.

Ziva looked at Ducky too, and shrugged, nonchalant, not bothering to disguise her curiosity. "I don't know, McGee. But I will find out, hm?" And then she left.

**x**

Ziva caught up with Gibbs, who had stopped by Tony in the hall, when the service elevator doors opened and Cassie stepped out.

"Oh good," Cass said. "You are all here." She looked around the hall. "Can we talk here?"

Gibbs just stopped himself from seizing her elbow. He channeled it into stabbing a finger toward the conference room door instead. "In there." He led the way and Ziva brought up the rear, closing the door behind her.

Cassie didn't bother to sit down. "It's done," she said simply. Bone weary. And then, as if that was it, "I can't stay."

"Sit down."

"I can't - "

Gibbs pulled back a seat and sat himself. "You're going to answer some questions here or I'm going to take you down to the NCIS interrogation rooms in handcuffs," he said mildly. "And you can answer some questions there. Your choice. Coffee?"

Cassie unzipped the black wool coat she was wearing and sat in the nearest chair. She waited for Gibbs to begin, but he took his time looking her over.

"I understand that you feel undermined and would like to reassert your power," she said. "But I am not in the mood for games. And if I do not sleep soon whatever answers you might get are not going to make a lot of sense."

Gibbs shook his head. Talk about games. "Tell me what 'It's done' means."

"L5 and his people in the United States were contracted to make the hits. Now they are dead. It is done."

"L5 is in Santa Marta prison," Gibbs ventured.

"Not anymore."

Gibbs glanced at Ziva, who looked grim. Not too surprising - they had discussed the ease with which an assassination could be carried out in both Mexican and Colombian prisons. No shortage of willing hitmen for hire, that was for sure.

But L5's brother was another story.

"L5's people in the States were led by his brother Andrés, out of Houston," Gibbs said, and waited.

"You want me to confirm that? What you have just said is correct, as far as I know."

"He and several of the younger people in his organization were found executed in his house. The maid reported a break in and the cops followed the smell."

Gibbs paused again and Cassie again followed up after a few seconds of silence. "I do not have any information about how he was found," she said. "What exactly do you need to know?"

_Need_ to know, she stressed. Just like their first meeting.

"His family wasn't found."

Cassie thought about her answer for a moment. "I do not think his family wants to be found."

Gibbs caught Tony slouching farther down into his seat from the corner of his eye. "Come on," Gibbs pressed. "What does that mean?"

"The family is unharmed. They do not need or want police officers checking up on them. Hook passed on your request regarding . . . that. We would not have harmed them in any case, unless it was unavoidable."

"All of this was avoidable," Tony muttered.

"Except in self-defense," she shot back. "You would not do the same?"

That sat awkwardly for a moment. They had all done that and more, though never, never on this scale.

Gibbs wondered for a moment what would happen if they really arrested her. Would Gray retaliate by exposing his team's own crimes? It was hard to imagine. But then, so was actually arresting Cassie. For one, he was pretty sure he wouldn't make it out of the building with her.

First things first.

"You personally know the family is fine?" Gibbs probed. "So you and Gray and whoever else carried out the hit?"

Cass didn't seem surprised by Gibbs' questions, or Tony's anger. But she looked exhausted and responded irritably. "If that was what you wanted to know, then you could have asked that first. I am not ashamed of what we did or scared by any of you. Yes, we carried that hit out personally. We had to - we weren't sure who or how many, going in."

Ziva leaned in, tone more curious than concerned. "Were any of you hurt?"

Cass shook her head no.

"How did you get to them so cleanly?"

Cass took a breath, looked like she was grinding her teeth. "They were well defended," she admitted. "Paranoid dealers. We convinced a couple of the younger people in the organization to turn on Andrés and his lieutenants." She quirked an eyebrow at Gibbs. "It sounds like you have not yet discovered the lieutenants."

Gibbs shook his head.

"After the leadership was gone we killed the traitors who had helped us take out their own boss."

"No loose ends," Tony said, low.

"No," Cass said. "Not if we can help it."

Ziva glanced between them, and quickly carried on. "How did you get them to turn on their own organization?"

"They only worked for him for money and power. We offered them more money and convinced them they would have more power with the crew's leadership out of the way. It was not difficult, they were not recruited for their sophistication. Is this going to take much longer?"

Gibbs raised both hands, an_ I don't know_. Cassie sighed and turned, reaching for the coffee carafe and a cardboard cup.

"Your people have been watching the hospital," Gibbs said.

"Hm?" Cassie played it innocent.

Ziva and Dinozzo actually looked surprised.

"Ducky and I can spot a guard," Gibbs said pointedly. "Or a lookout. Though figuring out what it's for is giving us some trouble."

Cassie opened and dumped four little plastic creamers into her coffee, one by one, taking her time.

"Assassinating an entire crew doesn't merit shame or fear, but posting a lookout does?" Gibbs pressed.

She ignored that, or seemed to. "Part of it is boredom. The ones left behind were on edge. Guarding the wounded is habit forming. And easy, when you can just do it from a parked car."

Boredom. Like hell it was. "What's the other part?"

Cassie reached for a swizzle stick, deliberately stirring the coffee. The deliberation - that was reluctance, Gibbs thought.

"Part of it was wanting to monitor what was going on."

"Going on?"

"One of your people was wounded, perhaps would die. You might decide to pull out. You might go crazy, do something stupid."

"This is coming from Gray?"

"I did not think you would quit." Her eyes strayed to Tony, then to Ziva, and back to Gibbs. "But I did not rule out crazy."

She didn't acknowledge the question about Gray. Gray would probably never be fully convinced Gibbs wouldn't abandon him.

But that guard was not about bored kids, or even reassurance. It was continuous, careful and efficient. Purposeful.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "And the other parts?"

A shrug, irritable again. "There are too many variables to count. It seemed sensible to observe." Hesitation. And then, finally, something real. "What if the cartel or Barbi put out a hit on your team, same as they put one on us? What if the CIA decided to withdraw its support? Or remove you? If something happened and you needed help, Gray probably has more pull with the CIA than Kort or you."

The kids' strategy had been two-pronged, then. They went after the threat with almost everything they had. But they also took steps to protect the few assets they had left. To protect the team. Gibbs shook his head at the idea.

"How about Londono?" he asked, nonchalant. "Gray have a lot of pull with him?"

Cassie's gaze sharpened on his. But he wasn't sure if it was wariness, or just confusion.

Gibbs waved tiredly at Ziva and Tony. "Give us a minute."

Tony looked like he'd been cast in iron and welded to the chair. "I want to hear this part."

Dinozzo didn't move. No one spoke.

It was Ziva who finally stood. "Come on, Tony. McGee is probably done with his consultation now. We will bring him the evening newspaper."

Tony stared at Gibbs and Gibbs returned it, a long silent stretch, until Dinozzo got up and left the room, Ziva following.

Cassie watched it all, eyes keen through the fatigue.

When the door closed behind Ziva, Gibbs returned his attention to the girl at the table. "Well?"

"Gray was right. McGee getting shot has created fault lines in your team. Tony wants out?"

"The team is fine. Tell me about Londono."

"There is nothing to tell. Could Gray have pull with Londono if he wanted it? Of course he could. That is why he has the influence he does, more than you or Kort anyway, with the CIA. Is he actually dealing with Londono? No. The question is absurd."

Gibbs studied her, thinking that over, watching her face and considering her indignation.

"What?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Trying to figure out if Gray is lying to you or if you're lying to me. You're all such good liars, though, I'm just not sure."

She didn't take offense, or didn't sound like she did, at first. "You are trying to goad me into revealing information again, instead of just asking your questions. Come to the point or let me go."

That made sense. Trouble was, Gibbs didn't have anything solid, yet. Only knew - maybe hoped - that he didn't have the full picture.

He met her stare and waited for more.

She wasn't having it. "I am tired. I have been up for a very long time. Trying to keep my family alive, you know?"

Gibbs nodded. "Alright. I'll just tell you what's got us concerned."

Cassie swallowed half the coffee and waited. Satisfied he wasn't treating her like a suspect.

"When Gray led Tony and Ziva through Calera land, to the camp where they were holding me, he took some detours along the way."

Cassie nodded, resigned. And Gibbs knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were right.

"We weren't really sure what for," he went on, "though there were some obvious possibilities. Then at the CIA debrief he made a point of saying he wasn't reporting all of the drug fields or remote labs he'd scouted."

Cassie tilted her head. "Is that all?"

If this was a criminal investigation Gibbs would squeeze it out of them at this point. Make them hang themselves, make them reveal the answers to questions he didn't even know to ask. But Cassie was already on to that, and anyway, he hoped this wasn't the end of working together. Of helping each other.

"No. Kort and his supervisor both said Gray didn't usually go back for people stuck in Calera land, or anywhere else. They were surprised he'd come back for us."

"That's something else."

"Oh yeah? What?"

Cassie didn't answer that. She turned on him instead. "Why should he risk himself for your people?"

Gibbs followed the rigid outline of her shoulders, her jaw. "You're angry," he observed softly.

Cassie didn't soften. "So are you. But you are the one who wants to ask questions, here or in handcuffs, remember? So get on with it."

Gibbs sighed. Should have known he'd pay for that. "He was gone a lot longer than he needed to be, when we came back from Colombia," he said mildly. "Wonder what he could have been up to."

Cassie rubbed her head, like she was trying to rev up that intellect. "You've known all of this for forever. What's changed."

"Kort let slip recently that you're paying your own way. I thought the CIA was supporting you. Then I saw your house," Gibbs said. "Or should I say, estate. You got some random drug runners in Houston to trust you in less than 48 hours. How? They would only trust other players in the trade, if they were going to trust any outsiders at all. You took out that Swiss trader, a major DC connect with almost no profile. One that no foot soldier in any cartel, no matter how close to O'Donnell, had any business knowing about."

Cassie blinked. "That's it? You want to know if Gray is trafficking?" She was trying for casual, but her voice was cold. "Of course he is."

Gibbs was silent, absorbing it.

"What's the matter?" She mocked his earlier words. "Assassinating an entire crew doesn't merit shock or disgust, but running a little import business does?"

"Don't," he warned, and pointed at the door. "The fault lines in my team? They're not about Tim taking a bullet. They're not even about losing a kid, though that's worse." And was damn well taking a toll. "It's about the fact that we're fighting off one cartel and apparently sponsoring another."

She started to protest, to downplay it.

"It's not a joke, Cassie. For Tony and probably the rest of them it's a dealbreaker. You know what we are."

He took a break, took a breath to get his voice back under control. He couldn't let fly at this girl. She was probably carrying, for one. He deliberately recalled Burnett's ugly punched in face. Tony had observed later, in admiring tones, that Cassie ground the man into dust and escaped the law all while decked out in a prom dress and heels. Today she was wearing jeans and what were possibly steel-toed boots. "And don't act surprised. This wasn't some little detail that slipped your mind. It was one hell of a secret."

She sat still, thinking that over. "Who did you lose?"

She sounded conciliatory, but now it was Gibbs holding on to irritable by a thread.

"What?"

"You said you lost a child?"

Gibbs stared at her, floored. And then he pounded a fist on the table and yelled. "_We_ lost Bean!"

She didn't jump, or respond, or move at all. She sat stone still.

As did Gibbs.

"Well," he sighed. "Damn it."

"It is fine." Her voice had gone entirely flat, almost robotic. She watched his hands, avoided his eyes, and flicked a glance at the door. "I am not - made of glass."

"Yeah."

"If you say they are really that angry then I believe you." She spoke quickly, standing to zip up her coat, already leaning toward the door. "But it is impossible to respect. You know we need to protect ourselves. You know we have young children. How were we going to do it without money? Even if the CIA could be persuaded to take us in they would have split us up. And they would have Gray entirely under their control. Staying with the cartel would have been better. I have to go. I have to sleep."

"Wait, Cassie - " He moved quickly and she backed away. He pretended not to notice. "Dinozzo is probably lurking," he explained. He opened the door and sure enough, Tony was leaning against the wall opposite, radiating tension, eyes shooting sparks. Ziva stood beside him, arms crossed, looking exasperated.

"Let her go," Gibbs cautioned.

The caution brought Tony up short.

They let her go.


	69. The Gang's All Here

**Chapter 69**

**The Gang's All Here**

"Is that one of them?"

Sarah appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost at Gibbs' shoulder. She watched the door to the stairwell swing closed, Cassie's form moving out of view.

Ninja Sarah, Tony called her, to avoid confusion with McGee's sister Sarah. And because she obviously liked it.

"Yes." Ziva shifted to the side, making room in the circle. "Cassie. She said the immediate threat has been dealt with." Ziva and Ninja Sarah were buddies after the week spent in the hospital, sharing training and op stories and their assessments of the men around them.

"So I heard. Darren just checked in." Sarah bounced on her toes, ponytail swinging, all caffeine buzz and carefree relief. They hadn't heard a whisper from Darren since he jogged after Gray on Gibbs' orders. "Called from a pay phone, said they were back in DC. Said Gray ditched him an hour ago."

Gibbs looked up sharply. "An hour ago?"

Sarah nodded. "He had eyes on Gray all the way, up to now. And since Gray's in the wind and the other kids don't seem to mind him hanging around the safe house he thought he'd stay there, make sure everything is quiet with the rest of them at least. He can check in every six." She looked at Gibbs like she was waiting for him to okay the plan. Like he was her CO.

Gibbs didn't know who Sarah's commanding officer was. His clearance probably didn't go up that high. But occasionally little gifts like these would come. A team like Sarah's, or Rodge and Pete's. Strangers willing to follow his lead. Gibbs didn't question that willingness - he just took it. "Don't suppose he has any idea where Gray was headed?"

She'd clearly been waiting for him to ask. Sarah leaned into the circle, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Nope. But Darren said Gray told him to tell you he would be," she paused, 'out back.'"

A moment of silence, everyone expecting her to continue - to turn that into something that made sense. But she didn't.

"What?" Tony pressed.

Sarah laughed, total agreement. "Gray said to tell Gibbs he'd be out back."

"Out back." Ziva puzzled over the words like she'd stumbled over some new idiom.

No one answered. They were all looking at Gibbs now, assuming he would be able to explain it to them.

He had no clue. And they had other problems. "Where's Kort?"

"Gone," Sarah shrugged. "Think his boss called him in." Sarah's eavesdropping skills were just as ninja as Ziva's.

Gibbs glanced at his watch. It was late. "Kids have taken out the immediate threat," he said. "But not the underlying one. We don't know how much Londono knows, about the kids or about us, or who else in the cartel O'Donnell might have warned."

Not that they could do anything about it now. They weren't ready to move, didn't have it yet.

Gibbs looked at Ziva and Tony. So far the Calera organization hadn't dared come after his team. But things kept escalating. . . . "You need to watch your backs," he said, echoing his last warning to them. "Vance agreed to post a guard here for McGee. I've got a briefing with the Rangers at NCIS tomorrow, 0800." His eyes slid over the team as he turned away, heading for the nearest exit. "Open invite."

"What'd she say," Tony demanded.

It was the wrong question. It would never be what she said, what any of them said. It was what she _was._ Frightened, angry, young, trapped. Fighting.

Gibbs turned back thinking he'd like to see her someday without all that. When the fighting was done. "She said they needed the money, Dinozzo." He let his gaze drift over the three of them. All three of them, unbearably young. "You did the best you could. Get some rest."

Gibbs took the elevator down to the ground floor. His knees were killing him and he needed to think. The kids' hunt for L5 set them back a week. Gray was on the rails, if not over them. AK was dead. At least one member of his team was down - two, for however long Abby stayed glued to McGee's bedside. Maybe three, if Tony backed out. And if Tony went, who's to say Ziva wouldn't follow? He didn't know how Bean's loss would affect the kids, change their strategy, or influence their tentative alliance with Gibbs. He could never be sure how far Vance would back him. And he had a briefing in twelve hours that wasn't going to prep itself.

**x**

Sleep first. He could prep over breakfast. That was the plan, anyway. But there was a low-slung black Audi parked in Gibbs' driveway when he pulled in, the sleek shape just melting into twilight's shadows.

Kort's car. And there was Kort, standing on Gibbs' porch, features harsh in the old yellow porch light. The CIA boss, Holdner, sat on the steps next to him. And there was Holdner's boring agency sedan, parked across the street.

Holdner didn't look his usual jolly self as Gibbs approached. Beside him Kort looked even more sullen than usual.

Chances of actually getting into bed anytime soon were getting slim, in direct proportion to the number of frowning CIA agents lurking around his house. "You know what I just realized?" Gibbs said. "Technically, I'm on vacation."

They ignored him. "I was sorry to hear about Agent McGee's injury. I hope he's on the mend." Holdner didn't say it like McGee getting shot was the reason he was there. Or like it was McGee in the hospital behind the grim face.

"Vacation usually involves a boat. And less of you people. You mind?" Gibbs gestured to the steps, only stopping when he loomed over the man sitting on them. His porch steps weren't wide enough to take a CIA Boss and an NCIS Boss, even if Holdner hadn't been hogging them.

Holdner didn't budge. He was indifferent to the glare. "We need to talk, Gibbs. And then I'm going to need you both to refrain from doing anything stupid."

Gibbs' eyes wandered to Kort, took in his annoyed posture, the aloof look. So Kort didn't know what was going on either.

"Well, I'm going to need you to get out of my way," Gibbs said.

"Londono's requested a meeting." Holdner said it like they met with cartel bosses regularly.

Kort stiffened, but Holdner's eyes were on Gibbs. Assessing. Waiting.

"Roberto Londono? Anytime," Gibbs smiled.

Holdner smiled back. "Good. He's inside."

Gibbs studied Holdner's face. Nothing but blunt honesty there.

His eyes shifted to the front windows, scrutinizing his own house in a way he never had before. When Gibbs pulled his sidearm Holdner rose gracefully, powerfully, towering over him on the step. "He's unarmed - "

"Even better." Gibbs was already moving, intent on brushing by.

" - but hardly alone." Holdner was not a small man. He adjusted his position and easily blocked Gibbs' path. "You don't have the authority to arrest him. And our analysts say it's not in our best interests to kill him, either."

Gibbs looked up at Holdner calmly, feeling utterly, wholly confident.

The past week had been nothing good. Nothing but hospital rooms and broken agents and impossible questions, pathetic failed parents and the wreckage of their kids. Dead children and murderous children and children too alone. Those things made Gibbs uncomfortable. Uneasy.

But this - this he knew what to do with.

"Don't recall inviting anyone into my home." The weight of his pistol felt beautiful in his hand. "I'm going to need you to get out of my way," he said again.

"You'll recall I asked you to avoid doing anything stupid? Put away the weapon. The guards will frisk you anyway."

Gibbs looked around. Didn't see any guards. Then he realized what Holdner meant.

He moved in close and eyeballed the other man, same as he would a gangly private mumbling his way through boot camp. "Is this a _joke_? You telling me you put the head of the Calera cartel _and his bodyguards_ in my _house_?"

"No. They're my guards. Londono is under my protection. For the moment." Holdner surveyed the street with the same blunt look he'd worn before. He'd of done fine in boot camp. "And the meeting place was not my choice."

Not his choice. So, what, Gibbs' house was Londono's choice?

Gibbs pulled back and looked the CIA man over with new eyes. He'd never trusted Holdner, exactly. But he hadn't distrusted him either -

_You'll be out in the cold._ Holder had said that before. _No protection. Even from the agency. . . ._

Was this betrayal? Or clean-up, maybe - things had gotten messy, and now they'd solve it all by handing Gibbs over. Gibbs looked beyond Holdner, to Kort, and was gratified to see he looked as blown away as Gibbs felt.

Holdner's distracted eyes wandered back to Gibbs. Paused.

Holdner shook his head, short and hard. "Suspicious bastard. Don't tell me you were bluffing about working with the cartel, Gibbs? You were so convincing. And now you've got your chance."

"Londono wants to work with us?" Kort sounded intrigued.

"Not really, no." Holdner went back to peering into the shadows between the street lamps. "Londono wanted to arrange a meeting with Gray and with the CIA authority in the Calera situation. That would be me. So I've arranged it."

Gibbs recovered first, and laughed. The CIA. There was ballsy, and then there was . . well, then there was a towering ego too stupid to realize it could no longer see its own shoes.

"Gray won't - "

Holdner cut him off. "Gray's only demand was that you two be here. We're all _here_ because the only other options were NCIS and the hospital, given your schedule, Gibbs." Holdner shrugged, vaguely apologetic. "Vance would never have approved bringing Londono into NCIS. Not as a free man. Gray pushed for the hospital, but I thought you'd prefer having Londono in your house if the only other option was inviting him into Wash Central with McGee laid up there." Holdner locked eyes with Gibbs briefly. "They don't get what an agent down means to us."

Holder couldn't know what this house meant to Gray. The kid had been inching toward it, Gibbs felt sure. Toward feeling safe here. Safe with Gibbs, like a wild thing lured in from the cold.

And now there was a wolf in there.

"Gray's not here yet," Holdner muttered. He looked at his watch and frowned. "Thought he'd be here before you."

Gibbs shook his head. Kid was probably here before any of them. "Your guards better be good. Let's go in if we're going. Get this over with."

Holdner eyed him. "It's Gray he wants to meet. We have to wait - "

"And Gray's not going in there until we've cleared it," Gibbs said shortly.

Holdner tried to stare him down.

"He's already here, Holdner. Waiting for us," Gibbs said, impatient and resigned. "He's - "

"Out back," Kort realized.

They shared a look, rare understanding, and then Gibbs gestured toward his own door, scowling at Holdner.

Of all the insane stunts.

"After you."

**x**

The guards were nondescript, typical hulking CIA suits. They let Holdner through first, then Kort, then Gibbs. They weren't kidding around, took everything off him but his belt and his watch, and those they examined suspiciously.

Gibbs tossed his keys when they were through with him, sorted his mail and shucked his coat like he always did. When he stepped into the living room Holdner and Kort had already helped themselves to the two armchairs.

Roberto Londono stood silent and still by the bookcase, at the far end of the couch.

Gibbs went through to the dining room and grabbed a chair. On second thought, he grabbed two. Doubtful Gray would want to share a couch with Londono, either. He set the chairs down at the edge of the living room, opposite the couch, and finally returned the stare he could feel dissecting him.

Londono had neat salt and pepper hair and a strong, slender figure. Shiny shoes and an impeccable dark suit. Intelligent dark eyes.

He looked like a banker. Like some sleek Wall Street executive, except for the eyes. Gibbs wasn't overly surprised to recognize something of himself there - the soldier, the survivor, the leader.

Maybe they'd be able to keep the bullshit to a minimum.

Gibbs sat down. When he sensed Holdner starting to open his mouth he spoke, stare never leaving Londono's face. "Not sure why you want to speak to Gray. Or what makes you think you've got the right."

Londono sat on the couch, movement slow. "Is that what he prefers now? Gray?" His accent was soft, smooth. It made his voice sound cultured, something meant to admire wine, to talk about art. Or to broker these delicate little deals.

Gibbs didn't respond.

"I do not assume any rights." Londono's calm was absolute, a mask sewn into the skin. It gave nothing of the man under it away. "I invited . . . Gray to meet with me. It was not a demand." His gaze flicked around the room and returned to Gibbs. "But we are not all here."

"Gray won't come in here unarmed." The fineness of Londono's tone made Gibbs' voice sound harsh in his own ears. Rough, like a grunt to an officer.

"I was searched by these men just as you were. He has no reason to fear me - "

Gibbs laughed, quiet and rude.

" - today," Londono acknowledged, just as quiet. "Or in the future. You see, Agent Gibbs," he smiled slightly, sardonically. "I've retired."

**x**

Ninja Sarah muttered something about land lines and city grids and ghosted away, no doubt looking for Abby and ways to track down Darren. Ziva watched her go. She didn't know how long Sarah and Darren had been teammates, but it seemed obvious the bond there was strong.

She looked back at her own teammate, and a more complicated past. Tony leant against a polished handrail and stared, preoccupied, at the wall. Ziva stood away, watching him, waiting.

It seemed to take a long time. But Ziva knew he was aware of her. He was thinking over what he wanted to ask, or say, thinking about the right way.

"Do you think - " He paused, started again. "Do you regret it?"

Ziva walked closer, hard boots echoing in the empty hallway, and leaned against the wall next to him. "NCIS?"

_Very funny._ That is what that look said.

She smiled and sobered quickly. "Going into the house?"

_No. _

Something more . . . complicated . . .

"Colombia."

Tony's head dipped lazily to the side to look at her, considering.

"Fighting the cartel," she realized.

Ziva knew her own answer, but she could not know his. She shrugged, like the answer wasn't that important anyway. "Do you?"

He sighed, deflating visibly. He looked thin, in too many ways. "Feel like I should. I don't know . . . " He tried to find the words, the idea at the root of it. "I just . . . " even his voice was thin " . . . don't know how we're going to get out of this pit."

Ziva nodded in understanding. But - "I do not regret it," she said baldly. "I have been here before and - Tony, I cannot lose any more. If we let them go they win." She added softly, "I cannot let them win."

She said it like she would lose something too profound to name, too terrifying to admit.

He looked at Ziva's proud profile, always something remote there, untouchable. He flashed to the scars on Gray's shoulders, the emptiness of his gaze and the look of melt on Cassie's arm, on her face. He felt the old stab in his gut, same as he'd felt it on that day years ago. The death in Ziva's eyes, the despair of that other camp. He thought about the way he'd sensed the cold in Gibbs, sometimes, an inhuman will. It was beyond law. Beyond him.

"Yeah, I - " Tony understood. But actually doing it - he knew, deep in his gut, that he couldn't let himself go that way. Didn't have that will. Jump over the edge and it wouldn't be the same for him. He would get confused. He would lose himself, lose everything, every scrap of good he'd ever won back from his father's rotten house and his own lousy, empty childhood. The way he'd let himself drift, before, when he was young, and then when Ziva was gone, and so easily done nothing. _Nothing, done nothing, nothing_. It screamed at him now, pulled at his breath.

He waved an arm, defeat, or reality, he didn't know. "It's not right. I can't do this, Ziva," he said softly. "I can't be this." He hesitated, wanting to say he was sorry. But he didn't think that would be right.

Ziva met his tired stare. When Tony was accused of murder years ago, framed and locked up in the NCIS cells, Gibbs would go to visit him. When he came back to his desk Gibbs would be irritable, of course, but more than that he would be disturbed. Ziva couldn't understand it, because Gibbs was not easily disturbed. When she went to visit Tony her teammate was confident, joking, quoting endlessly from 'The Great Escape,' 'The Count of Monte Cristo' and 'Shawshank Redemption.' It was his regular persona, only more, and she had actually wondered if he was enjoying the attention, content to be the star of this latest drama.

But Gibbs was not simply irritated. He was disturbed.

So she followed Gibbs, once, and while he surely knew she was there, Tony did not. The confidence was gone. The humor was black at best, and the shell of stubborn optimism had been replaced by acceptance. A kind of bleak, passive inevitability that shook her to this day. Tony's seeming worship of Gibbs made more sense after that. He wanted someone unshakeable to follow because he did not have that kind of resolve for himself. For others - for his teammates - yes. But not for himself.

She wondered what he thought he would do that was so terrible. Lose his temper, compromise cases? But Gibbs did that occasionally and Tony accepted it. Tony was the one who calmed him down. Accept bribes? But Tony was so thrilled by the chase, by catching his dirtbags - bribes would only ruin that. He could not think that he would commit the kind of crimes, make the dark compromises that Ziva herself, and even Gibbs obviously had. Tony was never even tempted by that kind of violence. She would have seen it and she never had.

Ziva shook her head. Tony as much as said once that he did not understand her, but Ziva knew there were parts of Tony, important parts, that she had never even seen, much less understood.

She was going to tell him that Gibbs would understand, that they all would. She was going to hide her relief, because whatever his doubts, Tony was clean, like McGee. And now maybe, through some miracle, they would both get to stay that way.

But she didn't say anything, because Sarah knocked open the swinging doors at the end of the hall and charged toward them, a look on her face that wiped everything else from Ziva's mind.

Sarah had Abby by the arm, towing the oblivious scientist along. Abby gripped a tablet computer and stared at the screen, pale as the death's head forever on her clothes.

"Something's going on at Gibbs' house," Sarah said.

* * *

><p><em>an: Tony was accused of murder and locked up in Season 3, Episode 9, "Frame-Up". As Tony says: "Because I'm angry, and I'm immature, and I like control!"_


	70. Meet the New Boss

**Chapter 70**

**Meet the New Boss **

**(Same as the Old Boss)**

Kort broke the silence. "Retired. From what, exactly?"

Gibbs discovered he could appreciate British sarcasm.

"From my businesses in Colombia. I was recently named CEO of an oil and gas company operating throughout South America," Londono said smoothly. "Venezuela and Brazil primarily. I have already consolidated my interests in Colombia and will fold most of them into the new company."

He looked like a banker and he sounded like an executive in a corporate boardroom, one with black chairs and glass furniture and windows so high there was nothing to see out of them but sky. The contrast between Londono and Gibbs' ancient, worn out couch was unreal.

Another tense, awkward silence. Another question from Kort. "Most of them?"

"Some interests will be left behind," Londono said simply. "That is what I am here to discuss."

Gibbs' eyes drifted to Holder, sitting patiently through the introduction. There was no surprise on his face - he looked attentive, satisfied. He looked like he'd been fucking briefed.

"No," Gibbs said. Londono's sharp eyes left Kort's and focused on him again. Gibbs leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together to hold them still. "You're _here_ because you wanted to meet Gray. But your little 'retirement' doesn't have anything to do with him. Whatever business you have to discuss can stay between you and the CIA."

Londono's eyes grew sharper, if possible, but he didn't respond. It was Holdner who spoke. "Gray has already agreed to meet. One of you should go get him. Take a pair of guards with you or bring him in the front."

Kort and Gibbs sat silent, unmoving. Ignoring Holdner, staring down the only man in the room with power that mattered.

Holdner stood himself and was halfway to the door before Londono stopped him. "Don't bother, Mr. Holdner. Gray won't play with you." He gestured politely toward Kort and Gibbs. "You both know I have information that you want. You know what I want in exchange. What do you suggest?"

Gibbs glanced to his side. Kort was looking at him, the faintest question there.

_Are we going to? _

_Gray and t__he mother and Cassie and Sean __Bean Andy McGee __Bee -_

_Yes._

Kort turned back to Londono first, words terse. "You're the one who called the meeting. You have the guards. That should be enough."

Londono nodded. "I agree." He spread his hands, a gesture of innocence. "I'm not concerned."

Holdner cut in. "_I'm_ concerned." He pointed to Londono and faced the agents. "His safety has been assured to the Colombian government. To our own people in the country, you understand me? There's more at stake here than one operation. And that kid could still be on the rampage for all we know."

Pin drop stillness fell, agents and supervisor glaring at each other, until Londono spoke again. He looked at Gibbs, bypassing Holdner and Kort entirely. "If this makes the Agency too nervous, perhaps I could meet with Gray directly."

Holdner swiveled to stare at him.

"Yeah?" Gibbs put his rage away - there was no time for it today, no use for it here. He kept it easy instead, going for maximum CIA irritation. "What kind of meeting? We all keeping our guns?"

"If you like, certainly." Londono smiled, perfect white teeth. "I don't happen to own firearms."

"Of course you don't. Sounds great." Gibbs stood, ready to wrap things up. "My place again? How's tomorrow afternoon?"

"Fine," Holdner broke in. Gibbs as irritant had worked its magic. "Let him in armed then, against my advice. But the guards move into the room and they stay with him for as long as he remains here." He was already waving them forward, signaling to draw their pistols. Setting the rules in Gibbs' house. "Just get him in here," Holdner muttered.

Kort rose instantly, he and Gibbs moving together toward the back door.

"Ah," Londono said. "Both of you? One should be plenty, I think."

"You," Kort said immediately, softly. He stayed in the hallway, blocking access to the back of the house as Gibbs nodded and pushed through the door, stepping out onto the deck and the poor light of dusk.

Gibbs didn't see him at first, had his eyes forward. But he felt him, over to the left. Felt menace and his own vulnerability. He turned casually, letting the door snick shut behind him. Gray was standing flat against the back of the house, lowering a pistol.

Gibbs looked him up and down silently.

Gray let him, but only for a moment. Then his gaze moved to the door beyond Gibbs' shoulder. "Just you?"

"Just me bringing you in. Kort and Holder are inside, along with Londono and four guards I don't know."

Gray holstered the weapon in his hand, tucking it up under the black jacket he wore, and reached around to his back with the same arm. He pulled a second pistol and held it out to Gibbs. "Checked them out. They're CIA, neutral. Far as we know."

Gibbs wondered who Gray had running his background checks, and eyed the weapon held between them. It looked like a standard issue Sig, same model as Gibbs' own sidearm. Gibbs would put money on Gray having one of the .45's Trent favored hidden somewhere on him, too.

"It's good," Gray said impatiently. Like he thought Gibbs was wondering if he'd cleaned it properly.

"Yeah." Gibbs rubbed his forehead. He felt old. Ancient. "Look, I can get you in there, Gray. But you start shooting and I won't be able to keep you alive."

"Not going to start anything," Gray said. His voice was low, hoarse. Exhaustion. But his face was relaxed and his hand was steady, the picture of control.

Picture being the operative word. Gibbs knew now where the cracks were, even if they weren't often seen. He grimaced and took the weapon, checking the clip and the round in the chamber before slipping it into the small of his back. "You sure about that?"

Gray didn't answer. He just stood there, so still he seemed more like a part of the house than a player in it.

It was the first time that the blank face and all too familiar silence struck Gibbs as nerves.

He felt a thrill up his spine. He was looking at the nervous, frozen response of prey. Playing dead when predators circled.

"Gray? Are you sure?"

"No," Gray ground out. "You stay here then," he added. Like he was agreeing to some new strategy. He started to skirt around Gibbs, eyes locked on the door.

Gibbs scowled and blocked his way. "I'm not leaving you. But you slip away in there, you get confused, and you're going to get both of us killed. If you feel like you're losing it you tell me. We'll take a break, end it, whatever. Got it?"

Gray looked at him emptily. With all the responsiveness, all the soul of a statue.

Gibbs reached up and shook his shoulders, as gently as he could. He let his voice go sharp. "Hey. You got me?"

A shaky nod.

"Follow me in." Gibbs led the way.

Kort looked back, waiting for Gray to close the door behind him and throw the deadbolt. Then the three of them moved forward, Gibbs gesturing Gray to the empty seat between the two agents.

Gibbs figured Holdner would mediate. But Gray spoke first, addressing Londono immediately - beginning before he'd bothered to take his chair. "What do you want here, Roberto?" His voice was rock steady. Relaxed, even.

One thing about Gray's picture of control. It was perfect. Gibbs grinned. So did Londono, after a moment.

The tone didn't say _subordinate_, or _rival_ or _threat_. But it took control of the room, removed it neatly from Holdner and put it down between Gray and Londono. There were two CEOs at this table. The rest of them were staff.

Gibbs had expected, had hoped, for nothing less. This was not NCIS's world, not even the CIA's. This was something else. Gray's world. Gray's family, twisted as what remained of it was, and his future, dark as it might be. It was Gray's life, from beginning to end.

It all felt entirely right. Clear and inevitable in Gibbs' chest, like a burst of relief. A decade before Gray was born, Gibbs sat up late on the couch he was looking at now, memorizing photos of the Calera brothers. Of Gray's grandfather. Years ago he'd set his rifle on the coffee table and cleaned it there, where he never would when it was a real family room, and he'd thought about how he would end the Caleras the same way he'd ended Hernandez.

It was a satisfying thought then, a simple idea. Too simple to be real, it turned out. Because there had been no end, he could see that now. There was only the start of this. Gibbs had tripped wires he hadn't seen, hadn't even realized were there. But they'd been there all the same, and now they'd come together again. In Gray, in this day, in Gibbs' house.

"I have something for you." The way Londono said it was strange. His hand moved hesitantly, then swiftly to the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Gibbs shifted and the guards did too, but not quick enough to stop Londono's forehead lining up sure and steady with the sights of Gibbs' gun. "Why don't you just tell us what that is, Londono?" he said.

* * *

><p><em>an: Howdy all, thanks for reading! This little chapter's title is stolen from a song by The Who, called "Won't Get Fooled Again."_


	71. The Spider and the Web

**Chapter 71: The Spider and the Web**

"_Gibbs!_" Holdner hissed at him like a disgruntled nanny.

Gibbs ignored him. The movement of Londono's hand slowed, but it didn't stop. "I carry no weapon, Agent Gibbs. Not in that sense."

Gibbs could already tell it was too small to be a gun. Londono sat forward, slow, to place whatever it was on the coffee table. When he leaned back and away Gibbs chanced a glance down. A flat, simple cross made of what looked like bone sat on the table. The colors, mottled white and pale gray, were stark against the dark stain of the wood. A tiny wire hoop stuck out of the top.

Gibbs holstered his pistol and sat down. The guards relaxed, by a hair. But Holdner looked like Gibbs had actually shot someone. He glared at Gibbs' waist, where the weapon was tucked out of sight. "Gibbs - "

"Forget it." He didn't bother to take his eyes off Londono. "You're lucky I haven't arrested all of you for trespassing, Holdner."

Gray and Londono studied each other, oblivious to the byplay. The room waited, awkward silence, for the next move.

"What do you think that buys you?" Gray said, no emotion there that Gibbs could pick up.

"Buy? Nothing at all," Londono replied.

"You're not here to give that to me."

"No," Londono admitted. "I hoped it would encourage your . . . consideration."

Gray sat still, silent, staring at Londono with eerie concentration. He struck Gibbs like a spider, then, evaluating some foreign species that had turned up in the web. _Is it a predator? Or is it prey? Threat? Or food?_

"Retiring," he said suddenly. Something icy there now. The pretense of neutrality was fading rapidly, at least for Gray.

Gibbs' focus took on the hyper sharp edge of a sniper, peering through the scope. Waiting for the reveal.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"I do not intend to return," Londono said, perfectly level.

A long pause. The stare grew thick, heavy with something Gibbs didn't understand -

"Funny," Gray said.

Londono quirked a smile, sharp eyes glittering. He held the stare a moment more, and then he shifted, broke it, relaxed back into the couch. "But that was not the question you asked, was it? Perceptive like your father, en? _Hijo de tigre, tigrito_."

_The son of a tiger is a little tiger - ? _Gibbs felt some satisfaction that Gray only gave Londono the empty, nothing face he'd seen so many times himself.

Londono wasn't phased. "I have been ceding control gradually, for many years," he said. "Waiting for a leader to emerge, I suppose."

"So Dex wasn't trying to get back in with you." Gray said tonelessly. Dull realization. Gibbs felt it wash over the room. "He was really taking over."

"He was trying."

"And you didn't order these hits."

Londono's face went from bland to something vaguely curious.

"Barbi showed up here last week," Gray elaborated. "Hooked into MS13. Looking for me, some of mine."

Londono's eyes flicked over Gray, taking in the loose fatigue in his posture, the mangled hand. "Ah. Yes, the top tier realizes there is a void, one that is growing. They have begun to wrestle for control. And for you, obviously." Shrewd eyes drilled into Gray. "And Sean?"

Gray didn't say anything, expressed nothing.

Londono studied him and seemed to read something there. "No," he said slowly. The look relaxed. "I think not. You would not bother sitting here with me if he was already dead, would you?" A pause, Londono's calm gaze intent, picking up every nuance. "But if he has been hurt I can help him. Help you both."

"We don't need your help."

Londono's hands settled comfortably over his stomach, fingers clasped. His thumbs moved rhythmically, one over the other, as he spoke. "They've found you twice already. They'll only become more aggressive when I am gone. You will always be a threat or an asset to them, as will your brother."

Gray didn't say anything. But he was listening, Gibbs could recognize that. He was listening.

"I understand you have also had trouble with law enforcement." Londono cast his eyes to the right and left, to Gibbs and Kort, then returned his focus to Gray. "These agencies will only go so far - they have their own rules, you know. And you are not family to them."

"I'm not family to you."

"You are my son's family. I understand that you have cared for him. Well as you could."

"But you think you could do better. He's alive," Gray said, cool and precise. "How's it working out between you and our mother?"

Londono was quiet.

"Well? Roberto?"

"You know as well as I. She paid the price for our lingering ties to that world."

"She chose you and she died with you."

"Yes. At the hands of a man determined to get to _you_, Gray. But I am leaving that behind, now. While you have just begun."

They sat there for a minute, silent, unmoving, waiting for Gray's response.

"Well? Daniel?" Londono smiled, mocking.

"It's not as easy to leave behind as you think."

Londono hesitated, and finally sighed. "I do not mean to belittle what you have . . . done. Achieved, for Sean. But only a child would think such a thing would be easy. I told you already - I have been leaving gradually, for many years. Why do you think that is?"

Gray shook his head, subtly, a denial.

"You cannot simply turn your back on your past and expect it to vanish. Our histories are living things. A part of us." Londono unclasped his hands, ran a palm over the arm of the couch. "And that business is . . . explosive. It lingers in the mind. Such things can only be left behind by degrees, as a new life is built, brick by brick."

Gray hesitated, for a moment. Gibbs held his breath.

And that's when Gray started to give. "That's what we're doing."

"Is it?"

Gray didn't reply. And Gibbs could see, could recognize, he was quiet now because he wasn't entirely sure of the answer.

"I spoke to O'Donnell, shortly before he vanished. He seemed under the impression he would be working with you in the future. Using you to control his interests in Colombia."

Gray shrugged. "That was leverage - "

"And then he found you. But rather than move and leave him behind, you stayed here," Londono flicked a hand around the room, taking in Gibbs and the CIA, "and worked to eliminate him. Why?"

"He was - "

"You have been syphoning product out of the Calera delta and selling it privately. For years. You should have more than enough now to begin again. To leave it behind and move on. But you haven't. Why?"

"That's not - "

"Of course, the ability to earn a steady income is essential to the support of a family." Londono's voice was light, idle, a bored professor delivering some remedial lecture on economics. "You need to guard against the unknown. Especially when you face violent threats and may need to move quickly. Let's assume you are a diligent student and will eventually be able to earn an honest living, wherever you may land. How long will it be before you get there, Gray?"

Gray was silent. Giving Londono the space to make his point.

"Ten years? Twenty? How will you pay for schooling? How will you pay for Sean's? How will you provide for your security? What if the next O'Donnell finds you? What if you need to move and leave your financial assets behind? What happens when Kort or Gibbs here decide you should be arrested, rather than protected?"

Gray waited for the answer Londono clearly thought he knew.

"But that's not the real reason you stayed in the business, is it? And pursued O'Donnell? I feel certain the CIA would be happy to take over your connections. They could give you and your crew anonymous new lives in exchange. Comfortable lives. Did they make you a nice offer?"

"Yes." Gray's voice was flat. Far away.

"But you refused."

Gray didn't respond.

"Because this is personal, for you." Londono observed, dispassionate. "You do not care about what is rational, or safe. You want to win. You want revenge. That is understandable. You have already paid a heavy price. But what about Sean? What price does he pay, because you can't let go of the past?"

"Sean is happy," Gray said, just as calm. "He's protected."

"I am glad to hear he is happy. But protected?"

Londono's hands came back together, thumbs rotating in lockstep. "We have met before, Gray," he said eventually. "At your father's house. Do you remember?"

Silence.

"I think you probably do. You were young, of course, about the age Sean is now. An impressionable time."

Silence. Londono seemed to revel in it. "O'Donnell loved his work, loved that world. I think you know that. He was not . . . a normal man. But your father and I only used it to achieve other ends. I always wanted to move on to the stability and broader access of true business, of political power. Your father saw his work as a means to his political ideals. A route to social and practical power that could rival a state's. That could change a society. I was cautious of government interference." Londono's look turned wry. "But your father - he was suspicious of it."

Gray tilted his head. "So? He was right to be, in the end."

"Daniel Conlon was perceptive, creative, charismatic, and ambitious. Ruthless. Cold. An inspired leader. And effective," Londono corrected, "to a point. But he refused to face reality, to negotiate or compromise in certain quarters. And he paid for that, in the end. Revolutionaries will always join the mainstream, or be killed by it. You cannot simply deny the system forever."

Gray shrugged again. "He wasn't some Irish-Colombian Robin Hood. He wasn't George Washington. He was a thug. And I'm nothing like him."

"You are extraordinarily like him," Londono said. It sounded like a warning. "Too suspicious to lose your grip on the independence that the business sustains, too stubborn to give up the individual power that only a business like that can give you. And still too proud to openly join it. But you can't dance on the border forever. You must choose. I think you already know this, en? You tried to leave it behind, unsuccessfully. You insist on coming back."

Gray looked pale, even in the warm glow of the lamps. "You said yourself it takes time."

Londono shook his head. "But you do not even want to leave it, do you? You have been solidifying your power, if anything. O'Donnell, the man called AK, our Mid-Atlantic connect? They weren't all personal threats. They were rivals to power. Their elimination gives you greater control of this region, a position of authority to negotiate from. Or a shot at the top yourself? And this deal you have with the CIA and NCIS - they protect you, but without the interference that such protection usually costs. A great advantage, to someone _in_ the business."

"More control, the right allies - that's the best way to defend against threats," Gray dismissed.

"Your father used to say something similar. But this is only true if you are determined to survive in that shadow world. Outside of it, the opposite is true. You must cede control to leave it behind."

Gray shook his head, another dismissal.

"Impossible for you now, I understand," Londono murmured. "Which is why you must give Sean to me."

Seconds ticked by, excruciating.

"A difficult thing," Londono continued. "But you know it is what would be best for him. You know it is what his mother wanted for him."

"And now she's dead."

"Yes. Now you and your brother are all that is left of her. Tell me, if you were a lieutenant in the old organization, how would you view this situation? You would see yourself as a rival, or at least a threat, I think?"

Gray waited.

"And if you were ambitious, how would you deal with this upstart? One with blood and connections and experience that will always supersede your own? Where is Gray most vulnerable?"

"It's not what I want for him."

Londono considered Gray a long, slow moment. "Is that really true? I think you want what is best for him."

Another endless silence. Holdner's eyes going back and forth between them. Kort's stare fixed on the cross on the table.

"I'll talk to Sean about it," Gray said abruptly. "He's old enough to have a say."

Out of the corner of his eye Gibbs watched Kort's hands turn white around the knuckles. Surprise. Anxiety.

Londono stared in what had to be his own version of surprise. But he recovered quickly. "He won't willingly leave you for a man he's never met." A note of uncertainty there, like a question.

"No." A pause, considering. "But he is curious. About you and her."

Gibbs felt like he was slipping into some surreal, impossible underworld. This couldn't be happening.

Londono frowned, justifiably suspicious. "I thought he would believe you shared the same father."

"I don't lie to him. I think the usual way is short visits, supervised. And then longer on your own, if everyone agrees."

Gibbs cast another glance at Kort. He was staring, face blank, at Gray's profile.

"Visits?"

"Supervised visits," Gray said evenly.

"That would mean more exposure." Londono's words were infinitely cautious. "It would be dangerous."

"All of his options are dangerous," Gray countered. "If this is what you want, this is how it would have to be. If Sean agrees."

Londono leaned forward on the couch, forearms braced on his knees. "Okay. But I need another contact. If you and Kort are killed there is no way to reach him."

"You can call Gibbs." Londono's gaze shifted rapidly to Gibbs, perplexed. "He's in the phone book," Gray added.

"You can reach Sean?" Londono asked.

"If I'm killed, Sean will reach him," Gray said.

Londono's eyes stayed on Gibbs, briefly, and then his attention shifted back to Gray. "This man will never disclose Sean's location to me. He would use a meeting to assassinate me first. Choose someone else."

"There is no one else."

"There's a woman, a nanny - "

"No one defenseless."

"Holdner - "

"No one you can buy. Gibbs is more likely to arrest you than kill you anyway. Hire some decent lawyers. Or enjoy your visitation rights in prison. That's not my problem."

Londono shelved it. "Alright." He looked restless. Like he wanted to ask how long, when and where and who, but didn't think it was a good idea to push it. "Holder can reach me, when you've talked to Sean."

Gray didn't respond.

Londono reached into his suit again, not bothering to acknowledge Gibbs' shift and instant draw. "One last - I know he can't remember her." He held a piece of paper - no, a thin collection of photographs - out to Gray.

Gray didn't begin to move.

After a moment Londono placed them on the table. "If you could give those to him."

Gray nodded.

Londono stood, followed by Holdner. They waited in dead, motionless quiet as two of the guards stepped out to check the perimeter.

Gibbs let the two remaining sentries get antsy, just shy of raising the alarm, before he let his own stare leave Gray's face. Before he finally let himself speak up. "If you want to leave," he said, "and survive, I'll need to go out there and stand my team down."

Holdner looked offended. "You called them?"

"Nope."

A put upon sigh, and a wave. "Go on."

When Gibbs opened the door Ziva's pistol was an inch from his face. Over her shoulder stood Dinozzo, and behind him, under the gauzy yellow circle of a streetlamp, two CIA guards were handcuffed to an NCIS sedan.

It should have been beautiful. Gibbs was just too pissed to appreciate it.

"Stand down," he said drily. And then, "I don't want anyone breaking into my house."

Ziva lowered her pistol and spoke into her wrist mike, calling Sarah off of breaking down the back door. Dinozzo and Ziva escorted the guards, Holdner, and Londono to their vehicles, watching carefully as they moved out into the night.

Sarah checked Gibbs' ground floor for bugs, working efficiently around Kort and Gray, both still motionless in their chairs. When she was done, and Ziva was satisfied with the perimeter, the team gathered on the porch.

"What's going on?" Tony pressed.

"I honestly don't know. McGee's system bring you here?"

They nodded.

"Somebody from NCIS on the hospital?"

Another round of nods.

Gibbs looked out into the night. "Londono's here, obviously. Trying to get to Gray and Sean. Keep an extra guard on McGee, eight-hour shifts. Debrief at 0800 tomorrow." He paused, giving them time to jump in, disagree, add on. No one said anything. "Get some rest. Watch your backs."

He waited, watching them fade into darkness. When he stepped back inside Gray and Kort hadn't moved.

He stood looking at them for a minute. Kort was thinking. Waiting for Gibbs to take the lead. His face was still scraped up from his last run-in with Gray.

Gray looked like he might be falling asleep.

Gibbs sat in the armchair Holdner had been in, off to the side. "What happened to the cast?"

Gray looked at him like he didn't know the word.

Gibbs pointed to the broken knuckles and exposed stitches. "The cast on your hand. What happened to it."

"Got dirty."

Gibbs would have built on that, but Gray was looking at him strangely.

"What?"

Gray shook his head. But then his face did something weird. Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Something I can do for you?"

Gray smothered a laugh. And then he laughed outright. "Your - " Laughter shook his body. "You lasted, what, thirty seconds? Before you pulled the gun?" He turned his gaze away from Gibbs, to the windows, and took on a granny's sing-song. "Now Gray. I can't protect you if you start anything in there. Best keep your gun in your pants, young man!"

Gibbs waited for him to calm. Kort still hadn't looked at either of them.

"Using Sean as bait isn't a good idea," Gibbs said.

Gray kept his attention on the window. "Who's using Sean as bait?"

"You are," Gibbs said bluntly. "You're not actually considering handing him over."

"Handing him over?" Gray said absently. Like he had other things on his mind. "No. But if he wants to meet him - " A shrug.

"That's insane."

Gray frowned, and finally refocused on Gibbs. Curious, with the patience of the very, very tired. "Why? Londono's right. I'm not any less dangerous than he is. And if he's really out of the game . . . Kids are better off with bad parents than with no parents, you know. Statistically."

Gibbs studied him closely, looking for the tell, the gleam, the hitch - whatever would give it away, show this for the stunt it had to be. But Gray was serious. Gibbs turned his glare to Kort. "Anytime you want to jump in here, Trent."

Kort crossed his arms over his chest. When he spoke it was thoughtfully, like he was evaluating some abstract theory. "I don't know," he said. "The risks are obvious. The advantages . . . I don't know."

"You don't get a vote," Gray said shortly. He stood and headed for the door. "Sean gets a vote. And then I'll decide."

Gibbs didn't bother offering a ride.

* * *

><p><em>A noiseless patient spider,<em>  
><em>I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,<em>  
><em>Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,<em>  
><em>It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,<em>  
><em>Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.<em>

_And you O my soul where you stand,_  
><em>Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,<em>  
><em>Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,<em>  
><em>Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,<em>  
><em>Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.<em>

_- Walt Whitman_

a/n: Hello world. Long time no story. Life just gets in the way. Hope everyone enjoys the read, and is enjoying summer!


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